


Death's Favored Daughter

by windingwarpath



Series: Death's Favored Daughter [1]
Category: Baldur's Gate, Forgotten Realms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Every NPC at Least Gets a Cameo, F/M, Female Anti-Hero, Romance, raunchiness, some sexual content, sword and sorcery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-05-21 22:39:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 92
Words: 539,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6060775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windingwarpath/pseuds/windingwarpath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Ashura, a daughter of Bhaal who takes a bit after her father. Baldur's Gate 1 with a large rotating cast and a not-so-nice protagonist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blooded

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my ongoing walkthrough fic of Baldur’s Gate 1! This story started out as an attempt to practice my prose by writing a novelization of Baldur’s Gate and posting it on FFnet, but at over 500,000 words I guess ‘serial’ or ‘monster fic’ would be a better description. What can I say? I was determined to give every NPC at least a cameo, and then I fell in love with some characters and became determined to give them more space and story-arcs, and it just grew and grew.
> 
> A warning that character death plays a prominent role in this story, and that anyone can die, although I think the overall tone of the fic is more pulpy, swashbuckling adventure story than *Grimdark* (with a few moments of thematic horror where horrifying monsters play a big role.) I apologize in advance for killing off beloved characters, and wish to point out that I bear none of them any malice.
> 
> Ahem. In any case, on with the story!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashura does some warmup calisthenics. And then kills two guys.

**Death's Favored Daughter**

**Part One – The First "Adventure"**

 

_"He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster…when you gaze long into the abyss the abyss also gazes into you"_ –Friedrich Nietzsche

_"Can we go just one day without someone getting brutally killed in front of us?"_ –Imoen

 

 

* * *

Mirtul 1, 1368 D.R.

As the first rays of sunlight began to warm the stones they found the girl on the battlement already sweating. She inhaled deeply and rocked forward, palms and feet resting on the stone, back arched, head up and muscles straining under her weight. She rocked back as she breathed out. Another inhalation and she repeated the exercise one more time before rising to her feet. After catching her breath she bent down and lifted two weighted practice swords from a small pile of equipment in front of her.

The dawn light fell upon the young woman's long dark hair as she paused to stretch, arms up, pointing the tips of the swords as high as she could. For a time she just stood and let the rising sun warm her through her black woolen tunic.

For two more breaths she enjoyed the luxury of the sunlight, then her arms swept down and the steel sung through the air. In tandem with the weapons her body spun, falling into a series of dueling stances. She looked at nothing in particular, head downturned with her mind's-eye focused on imagined foes. Her sandaled feet danced as she kept her left side facing the phantom enemies. The left-hand sword swirled through different parries and counter-attacks: blocking low, high, slashing back, stabbing forward. The right-hand weapon was hidden behind her body until the chosen moment when she locked her imaginary enemy down with a slash and followed through with a surprise overhand stab from her right sword.

Next she shifted to a stance that favored her right side and went through the same forms using the other sword to block and parry. She finished with an underhanded stab with her left-hand weapon aimed at imaginary guts.

After another shift in stance she launched into a series of simple combinations that used both swords in tandem. A simultaneous stab and slash, a double hack, a double parry, a scissoring cross-cut. Next came a low-

There was scraping sound on the stones behind her and the girl whirled around, pointing a sword out and bringing the second up behind her body as she tensed. The sword pointed at a short girl with a round, smiling face and copper-red hair who stood two paces away. She was in her late teens, nearing twenty, about the same age as the girl with the swords. The redhead's hands had been hidden under a purple woolen cloak but they shot up now. Her palms were open in a gesture of peace.

"And good morning to you Shura," the redhead greeted the dark haired girl in a sing-song voice. It was short for her full name: Ashura. Most people shortened her name to 'Ash' instead.

The blunt practice swords sank to the stone and then clattered as Ashura let them go. She let out an embarrassed laugh. "Uh, hey Imoen," she said. "Sorry about that."

"Throwing yourself into it huh?" Imoen noted. "Seems like you've been up here every morning for at least a tenday."

Ashura nodded as she leaned down and lifted a waterskin. She took a few careful sips before pouring more into a cupped hand and splashing it on her face. "Yeah," she said. "It's pretty private here before dawn. I can practice the forms from the old combat manuals without the Watchers scoffing at me."

Imoen turned towards the edge of the battlement and Ashura followed. Far beneath them lay the cobblestone road called the Way of the Lion, which stretched straight and true across the plateau on which Candlekeep stood. In the distance the road gradually disappeared into a forest of ancient pines. Imoen shivered slightly as a bitter northwestern wind rolled in off the Sea of Swords behind them.

"You thinking of taking up Reevor's offer?" Imoen asked.

Ashura shook her head ever so slightly, her eyes on the swaying trees across the plain. "Stand around in a metal suit looking important? No, can't really see that as my kind of life."

"Aw," Imoen said in a teasing tone. "Would have been nice to have a friend in the guard last year when Fuller caught me dipping my fingers in that traveling bard's pockets."

"Hardly," Ashura said with a chuckle. "If I joined the Watchers I'd take a vow to uphold the laws of the Citadel." She mockingly placed a hand over her heart. "I'd have to tell them about the little collection of trinkets under your floorboards."

Imoen pouted. "You wouldn't!"

A warm smile broke out across Ashura's face. "I wouldn't."

"Mask be praised," Imoen said with a grin, turning back to the horizon. After a pause she said: "When you go I'm going with you."

Ashura gave her a quizzical look.

"I know what you're thinking," Imoen said. "Yer sick of this stuffy old place. Yer thinking about what's beyond those trees. You want to follow that road, go on an adventure."

After a time Ashura slowly nodded. Since being brought to Candlekeep as a toddler she had hardly set foot outside the citadel's walls. During the summer when it got unbearably hot the youth of Candlekeep would sometimes make a short journey down to the ocean where they would swim and play on a few small spits of beach and in the tidal pools. Other times Ashura's foster father had taken her and Imoen into the nearby forest where they had camped a bit, learning to build fires, pitch a tent and survive in the wilderness. Other than that Candlekeep had been the only home the two had known.

Ashura spoke up again: "Father was disappointed when I made it clear I wasn't going to follow the path of Ohgma and become a scholar. But," she gave the slightest shrug, "that's just not for me."

"Good," Imoen said with a conspiratory grin. "We're in agreement then. I know where they keep the keys for the escape tunnels. I've also gotten pretty good at sneaking into the stables, and sometimes merchants come through with carts big enough to stow away on."

"You're thinking of running away?"

"Pish!" Imoen responded. "Wouldn't call it that. Sneaking out. A little adventure! I'd at least like to see Beregost. It's this big town we've been hearing about all our lives, maybe a day or two's travel away, and we've never even seen it."

Ashura smiled. "Well, when you figure out all the details I'd be happy to go on this little adventure." She turned and bent to gather her belongings: a sheathed knife, two small pouches for coins and various accessories, and the belt that she attached those to. "In the meantime I think I'll tend to morningfeast and then get to my chores."

"Ugh," Imoen frowned. "Don't remind me. Puffguts has me mopping the whole bleeding kitchen today."

The pair descended a few flights of stairs down to the outer courtyard and parted ways, Ashura finding her way to the barracks. Sparring with the Watchers of Candelkeep was a favorite pastime of hers, but today she was given more mundane tasks. After a quick morningfeast she was sent to fetch a quarrel of crossbow bolts for Fuller and deliver a sword to Hull. The two guards were apparently hung-over and had gone to their posts without full kit.

When she found Hull at the main gate he chided her for being lazy and slow. She rolled her eyes and tossed the sword at his feet, chuckling to herself as he nearly toppled over in his platemail trying to fish it from the dirt. Years ago at a Greengrass festival Hull had been the first boy Ashura kissed, and judging by his relentless teasing he still seemed to have a bit of a crush. These days she preferred knocking the boy on his ass in the training yard to kissing.

Chores chores chores.

Hull sent her to deliver medicine to the man who managed the stables (apparently it was for his 'prize winning' cow.) From the stables she delivered a book to a forgetful scholar named Phlydia (it was buried in a hay pile, which gave Ashura some suspicions,) and from there she was directed to the laundry to fetch fresh linens for the bunkhouse.

With crisp sheets piled high in her arms Ashura made her way along the path, her chores sending her full circuit around the outer courtyard of the citadel. She was starting to hope that Imoen came up with her escape plan sooner rather than later.

A strange sight stopped Ashura in her tracks. Her foster father was running through the courtyard towards her, the elderly scholar's robes billowing. Despite his age Gorion's breath was almost unaffected by the sprint. "So glad I found you," he began.

Ashura raised an eyebrow behind her pile of laundry. "Is something wrong father?"

Through his long white beard Ashura thought she saw Gorion open his mouth then close it and pause. When he did reply his words were measured. "We need to leave Candlekeep, I'm afraid. I will explain everything as soon as there is time." He offered Ashura a small pouch that clinked with the sound of coin. "Here," he said, "this should be enough for you to equip yourself for travel. Purchase what you need from Winthrop's shop and then find me at the central library."

Before Ashura could stammer out another question the old sage whirled around and quickly marched off. For a moment she just stood there in shock. Hours ago she had been thinking about running away from the drab citadel, but this hardly felt like a wish come true. Gorion had been pensive and distant for weeks, and she had never seen him as shaken as he looked today.

Shaking her head Ashura hugged the linens to her chest and walked the last half-dozen steps to the bunkhouse. With her elbow and foot she managed the door and swung into the dark room.

As the door creaked shut she looked up and stopped, unsure. There was a man in the room. A stranger with disheveled blonde hair and ragged, rough-spun clothes. And he was rapidly closing the distance between them.

A pace away the stranger stopped and gave Ashura a wide, toothy smile. "Ya'lo miss." He had a thick accent she couldn't place. Waterdevian maybe?

Ashura narrowed her eyes and did not respond. After a beat the stranger broke the silence. "You're Gorion's little whelp aren't you?"

"Little _what_?" She glared.

"Well ya are," he said with a slight shrug. "Don't worry. I won't be here long." He was easing his way closer and Ashura found herself backing towards the door. "And neither will you. Hehehe. You've a pretty face but I don't see what the fuss is about." The dagger left its sheath with a faint swish as the man raised it over his head and lunged.

The coin purse clattered on the floorboards as Ashura lifted the stack of sheets to meet the tip of the blade. There was a ripping noise as the dagger sank into the fabric. Before the man could pull back Ashura pressed forward and stamped down as hard as she could on his foot. The stranger managed to keep the grip on his dagger as he stumbled back.

Ashura tossed the pile of linens in his face and yanked her knife from her belt. At the same time she reached forward with her left hand, snatching the man's wrist. She yanked, he squirmed, and she drove her knife into his unprotected stomach. His lips were at her ear as he shuddered and gave a ragged gasp, letting go of his own dagger.

Pulling back Ashura stabbed the man again and again, tilting the weapon up and driving it into his chest, frantically hacking and twisting with the blade. Another loud gasp and another, then the man was dead weight leaning against her. She backed up and he fell forward, flat on his face. Blood poured out onto the floor and pooled around the man's still body.

The bunkhouse door groaned ever so slightly behind Ashura. She spun, knife raised and ready as her eyes met those of a gaunt elven man. He was dressed in the same sort of rough-spun wool as the other stranger. And he held a dagger, out and aimed at Ashura's chest.

And he was charging. _Shit!_

Twisting as the dagger narrowly swished past her chest Ashura managed to catch the elf's wrist. She yanked him closer as she drove the point of her knife into his slender neck. His eyes popped open wide and his mouth did the same but no words came.

Ashura's hand was showered with hot blood as she yanked the knife out and stabbed again, hoping she'd catch a vein or artery this time if she hadn't the first. The elf sank to his knees, defensively gripping his wounds as an inhuman sound left his throat.

Backing up until she pressed against the wall Ashura watched the elf. It took mere heartbeats for him to grow wobbly and then fully collapse, bleeding out.

Ashura's hands began to tremble and she looked down at them. Both hands and her entire right arm were drenched in red, flecked here and there with black. She gave the door a suspicious look. Were there more?

She tried to shake it off, knowing that she had to keep moving. The smell of blood, bile and voided bowels that was growing in the room spurred her towards the fallen coin purse, then the door.

After a few strides through the sunlight she was stopped by an elderly monk in dull yellow robes. Parda, the old man who had tutored her in reading and history. "Ashura?" he asked, "is that blood? Has Sergeant Reevor been sending you after rats in the cellars again?"

She shook her head.

Parda frowned. "I suspected as much." He placed a feather-light hand upon her bicep and gently guided her towards a rain barrel.

Using a pail Ashura splashed water on her arms, face and neck, then dumped the rest onto her head, soaking her hair and bloodstained tunic. "Men I've never seen before attacked me with knives," she explained, shivering. "Their bodies are in the bunkhouse." She turned to Parda. "They were looking for me. 'Gorion's whelp.' I…don't know why." She bit back more words as panic entered her voice.

Parda placed a soothing finger against her lips. "Hush child. It's okay. But you must prepare for your journey and be off quickly."

"You…you know about that?"

He nodded. "Please hurry. You're in great danger here."

So she hurried.

 

 

* * *

"Now that's an odd choice for a respectable young lady such as yourself," Winthrop teased as Ashura tested the weight of a pair of short swords. Ignoring him she cut the air a few times before sliding the weapons back into their lambskin sheaths.

They were standing in the section of the Candlekeep Inn that served as a general store tended by the fat, jolly man along with Imoen and his three true daughters. When she first arrived Winthrop had teased Ashura about her first time in the general store requiring a five thousand gold admittance fee but had gotten no reaction.

"A bit of a warning," Winthrop said as it became clear Ashura was going to buy the swords. "There've been all sorts of headaches recently with the quality of the steel that passes up and down the coast. It's a good thing yer taking two of those swords, since I can't guarantee the weapons won't break."

"Lovely," Ashura muttered as she admired a fine chainmail shirt. When she asked about the armor she found that Winthrop was asking for more gold than all of her funds. He directed her to the store's collection of leathers instead. First she picked out a pair of boots that fit her, then a thick tunic of cured leather armor that was reinforced by steel studs and thickly padded on the inside.

"This will do, I think," Ashura said as she whipped her belt away and shed her tunic. Winthrop turned away as she slipped into the leathers and tightened the new tunic's belt, flexing and shifting about. Yeah, that fit. Finally she picked out a pair of studded leather bracers.

With the remaining funds Ashura purchased a sturdy backpack and a light woolen bedroll. Next she went to filling that backpack, purchasing a sharpening stone and flint firekit, several lengths of hemp string and a cord of thicker rope, some strips of fresh linen cloth in assorted sizes and finally a few pouches of dried fruit, grain and a few strips of salted beef.

There were four gold coins and a little silver left in her coin pouch when Ashura left Winthrop's and took one last walk along the inner wall of Candlekeep. She passed through the inner gate and into the gardens where birdsong and the soft trickle of the fountains greeted her. Flowers of a dozen hues lined the tiled walkways, rising from the earth or hanging in careful arrangements from manicured shrubs.

Imoen was sitting on the lip of one of the fountains. She greeted Ashura as she approached with a toothy smile and a "Heya!"

"Aren't you supposed to be mopping?" Ashura asked.

"Snuck off," Imoen said matter-of-factly. "I've got all day to do my chores but…"

"I'm going on a journey with my father. But you already know that don't you?"

"Ya huh," Imoen said as she scooted off the fountain. They walked together through the garden. "You're lucky, finally getting to travel just like we were talking 'bout this morning. Sure are. Real lucky. Yes sir."

Ashura wrapped an arm around Imoen's shoulder, giving her friend a slight squeeze. "Message received. I'll ask Gorion if you can come along."

"Don't be silly. He'd never even let you finish the sentence. Not after what that letter said."

"Huh?"

"Did I say anything about a letter? I didn't say nothing." They had reached the steps that led up to the great library. Gorion stood at the top, arms crossed and face impassive.

Imoen turned and the two exchanged a quick hug. "Well, you take care on the road Shura," Imoen said, her voice breaking ever so slightly.

"I'll be fine. I'm sure you'll get to travel soon."

"One way or another," Imoen said with her usual mischievous grin before scurrying off.

With a deep breath Ashura took the last couple of steps. "I'm ready father."

The old sage nodded and led the way through the garden and towards the gate of the inner yard. Ashura fell into step beside him and as he walked he spoke. Even at his most affectionate her father always sounded formal, with careful enunciation and diction. "I apologize," he said without a hint of emotion, "for not being fully forthcoming about our destination or the reason for our flight. For your own safety it is best I tell you only what you absolutely need to know." At the great gate he stopped briefly, turning and looking into her eyes.

"Trust me," Gorion implored. "As soon as there is time and I feel that we are safe I will tell you everything." She found herself gulping and gave a nod. "Just know for now," Gorion continued, "that we are heading to the Friendly Arm Inn to the northeast. There we will meet Khalid and Jaheira. They have long been my friends, and you can trust them." With that he turned and hurried them along beneath the portcullis and out into the wider world.

 

 

* * *

The sun had long set and the sage and his foster-daughter had long left the open road for the deep shadows of the forest. They managed a decent pace thanks to a brightly waxing moon overhead and light underbrush. Ashura's feet caught on the occasional vine or shrub, and twice now she had tripped on a hidden hole left behind by long dead trees. She envied the way Gorion seemed to instinctively dodge the obstacles.

They had not exchanged words for a long while but it was clear her father intended for them to travel the night, and perhaps then some. That was fine. Ashura felt wide awake after the terrifying encounter in the bunkhouse. Who were those men? Did they serve some old enemy of Gorion's? He had never spoken directly of it but the old man seemed to have been some sort of adventurer before he retired to Candlekeep. When she was younger he used to tell her stories of fantastic places and exotic monsters and there was something about his matter-of-fact descriptions that made her think he had seen these things first hand.

The light brush and thick tree trunks suddenly fell away as they came upon a wide clearing. Under the silver light of Selune Ashura could see stones laid out across the earth in even patterns. The patterns formed wheels with clear spokes and hubs, perhaps marking some ancient burial ground. Gorion's pace never slowed as they walked among the stones.

As they approached the far end of the clearing Gorion startled her by suddenly stopping and barring her way with an arm. "Wait," he said with a quick, harsh whisper. His head slowly turned, eying the tree line. "There is an ambush ahead. Prepare yourself."

Ashura's swords found their way into her hands. She scanned the dark places between the trees. Nothing. Dead silence.

Then the sound of crunching wood echoed through the clearing, sudden and loud. Ashura's heart lurched and she gripped her swords tighter. At the edge of the wood branches snapped and fell as two massive figures lurched from the shadows. The creatures had the shape of men but were nearly nine feet tall with muscular frames to match. Moonlight glinted off their bald pates and the small tusks that protruded from their mouths.

Full ogres! They wore simple wool shirts and trousers and carried massive spiked warmaces, one handed.

Between the ogres two shorter armored figures emerged from the forest. One was far shorter than the other, armored in smooth black platemail with a cut that seemed vaguely feminine and long black hair.

The other figure was tall and broad, dressed head to toe in a suit of full plate decorated with baroque spikes at the gauntlets and shoulders. His helmet was even more stylized; shaped like a skull with a wide gaping mouth that served as a visor, lined with sharp teeth and topped with long horns. A second set of horns curved from the side of the helmet, giving the appearance of tusks. Behind the mask there seemed to be a fiery glow to the man's eyes. He held a greatsword loosely in one gauntleted hand.

When he spoke the armored man's voice was deep and booming: "Hand over the girl and you can walk away, old man."

Ashura gasped. They were after… _her_?

"You well know I have no intention of doing that," Gorion responded as he stepped forward, protectively blocking the path to his daughter.

The tip of the armored man's sword pointed at the old sage. "Very well then," the man growled.

As the ogres began to stomp forward Gorion turned and hissed at Ashura: "Run child! I will hold them off."

"But-"

"Run!"

The armored woman was singing something unintelligible. _A spell!_ Ashura realized it just as the night was lit by a bright red glow; a bolt of flame that shot across the field at dazzling speed. The bolt struck her shoulder with a hiss and its force spun Ashura's body. She sank to her knees and pressed a fist against her burning flesh, gasping in pain.

Gorion was singing as well now, in the tell-tale chant of a magic spell. As Ashura found her feet she felt her hair stand and smelled ozone as a sharp crackle hissed and grew into a dazzling flash and thunderclap behind her. One of the ogres bellowed.

One foot stumbled in front of the other and then Ashura was running. Another crackle and boom from behind drove her on. She felt a wave of searing heat at her back and flames lit the night.

When she reached the far end of the field and placed a hand against a nearby tree trunk Ashura dared a look over her shoulder. She could see the charred, unmoving form of at least one of the ogres and the girl and the other ogre were gone. Gorion stood where he had been. His hands wove their way through the air, and the man in spiked armor was a few paces away. Advancing fast.

Red bolts of pure energy erupted from Gorion's fingertips, flying at the armored man in wave after wave. Sparks flew as the bolts struck the man's armor, but his pace never slowed. There was another storm of bolts with no effect and then the armored figure slashed out with his greatsword. The old sage stumbled back as the blade struck some invisible barrier. Another slash and there was a waver in the air as Gorion sunk to one knee. The armored figure reared back, aiming his sword again, and stabbed, running Gorion through.

Ashura turned from the sight, bile rising in her throat as she found herself leaning against the tree. She choked it back, pressed the pommel of her sword against the tree, and plunged into the forest. Branches clung to her and stung her face. She pushed and kicked her way through the bramble, running in sheer terror.


	2. Babes in the Wood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No Baldur's Gate walkthrough fic is complete without that darn wolf. Also: why exactly would anyone accept gifts from those two creepy guys on the road?

_ "Keep your friends close, your enemies closer, and your mind-controlled slaves far out in front to act as goblin fodder." _ – Attributed to Zulkir Lauzoril of Thay

* * *

With a frightened start Ashura came awake. She found that she was already gripping her swords and had them pointed in front of her. It was still dark in the hollowed tree trunk, but the dim blue light of predawn was making its way through the cracks. She hadn't meant to doze off. The dead tree was just a place to hide and wait out the night after hours of running through the darkness.

After shaking herself fully awake she carefully crawled forward and then climbed out of the shelter and onto her feet. It was brightening out but still far from dawn. Good. She hadn't slept long.

The floor of the old growth forest looked different in the light, and she felt disoriented. As best she could judge from the opening in the hallow tree and the direction of the light she had come running from the north. The road was somewhere to the…east maybe? As good a direction as any to start in.

Ashura tried to walk softly for a time but her feet kept finding twigs to crunch, and eventually she gave up and just trudged along, her eyes constantly sweeping. Time passed and no pursuers appeared. There was nothing but the cheerful sound of the morning birds and the rustle of leaves in the Mirtul wind.

By the time the sun had fully crested the treetops Ashura came upon a break in the forest. She cautiously approached, at first thinking it was another field. Getting closer she saw the large cobbled stones of a road. The Way of the Lion. _Huh_. She'd been right.

Ashura crouched against a tree and carefully poked her head out, looking up and down the roadway. She gripped her swords tighter as she spotted a figure. Short, slender, female, carrying a strung shortbow and dressed in a distinct set of purple leggings and matching blouse. The figure wore a purple traveling cloak as well, topped with red hair. Ashura cautiously stepped out from hiding.

The girl on the road spotted her instantly, let out a yelp and ran forward. There was a relieved look on her face.

"Ims?" Ashura asked. "Is that really you?"

"Of course!" Imeon shouted. "Shura! I thought I'd lost you." The bow clattered to the ground as Imoen wrapped her arms around Ashura in a tight hug.

"Lost?"

"Ya." Imoen stepped back. "I uh, was following you guys. I was going to keep my distance, make sure you were alright, maybe introduce myself when old Mr. G wasn't around." She looked at the ground. "But then he…well. Some job I did protecting you huh?"

"So you saw the battle?"

"Not really. I was keeping back when I saw the fireballs. When I got to the clearing I just saw Gorion…his body. I'm so sorry."

"Were there other bodies?"

Imoen bit her lip thoughtfully. "Well, two big ones. Pretty charred but I think they were ogres."

"But no man or woman in heavy armor?"

Imoen shook her head. "No sign of you neither, so there was hope."

"So there was." Ashura sighed and leaned back against the sturdy trunk of a poplar tree. Looking up at Imoen she said: "You can g-"

"No way!" Imoen interrupted. "And I'm not hearing anymore of that. I'm going with you whether you like it or not. You're stuck with me. Yes sir."

Ashura chuckled slightly and shrugged. "Fair enough." She pushed herself off of the tree and stepped onto the road. "We were headed to the Friendly Arm Inn to meet some friends of Gorion. I guess that's our best bet for some answers."

"That's uh, north across the Coast Way, I think," Imoen said, eying the road. "Well, let's get started."

* * *

Both Imoen and Ashura gasped in shock as the large grey wolf barred its teeth and snarled. A bend in the road had brought them within a few paces of the beast, and it looked none too pleased. Ashura whipped her swords from their sheaths and pointed them at the wolf. "Get back!" she shouted.

The wolf didn't seem startled, and continued to snarl as it padded to the side, circling. Ashura pivoted, following the animal's motion. "I said get back!" She snarled right back at it raising an arm and preparing to slash if the creature charged.

There was a blurry motion on Ashura's periphery as something wet and heavy hooked into her forearm and dragged it down. She was pulled off balance and her knees hit the stone of the highway. _A second wolf!_ Its teeth were latched into her arm, biting at the edge of her bracer and into flesh at her elbow. The beast twisted its head, worrying with its mouth.

The first wolf charged, gleaming teeth and slobber closing on Ashura's face. There was a twang and a satisfying yelp as an arrow lodged in the wolf's broad side and gave it pause.

Ashura rolled under the beast that was latched to her arm, bashing at its head with the pommel of her left-hand sword. The blows did little good but as they struggled on the ground she managed to find an effective angle to turn her sword and stab at the wolf's underside. The blade sank deep and the wolf let go briefly before pressing down at her, furiously biting and snapping, a blur of fur and teeth and claws.

There was a trickle of blood on Ashura's cheek as teeth grazed her face and she frantically scrambled backwards and leapt to her feet. Before she could retaliate with her swords an arrow lodged into the wolf's neck and it sank to the ground with an ear-piercing whine. As it did Ashura felt teeth dig into her thigh and a heavy presence behind her, pushing her forward and threatening her balance again.

Furious, she whirled around and slammed the pommel of one sword against the head of the wolf. Two more hard bashes to the top of its head and the beast's bite loosened. She aimed her second sword as it did and lunged, stabbing it through the eye. As the wolf shuddered and grew still Ashura whirled around, watching the trees and the bushes.

There was silence.

Time passed and nothing stirred. Ashura yanked her sword from the dead wolf and wobbled in an uneasy battle-stance. "Just two wolves?" she asked.

"Dunno," Imoen said. She kept an arrow knocked. "Sure was enough wolf for me."

After a few moments of silence they relaxed slightly and dug some of the linen strips from Ashura's pack, which they used to wrap around her wounds. The bite on the arm was the deepest, the cut across her face superficial. Her leg ached from the bite on her thigh but luckily no arterial blood leaked and she could still walk straight. "When I bought the linen for my kit I was thinking about my time of the moon and the need for handkerchiefs," Ashura said. "Not bloody wolves in broad daylight."

Imoen had swiped a few healing potions when she left Candlekeep, but Ashura declined them for now. Instead she attached a potion to her belt to be used if there was a life-or-death injury and suggesting that Imoen do the same. Soon they were cautiously walking the road again. Ashura hobbled a bit at first, wincing in pain from step to step before she got used to it.

The road went on and the sun rose higher in the sky, marking late morning. The path bent, winding north for a while, then back to the east. At one of the bends stood a large stone marker with a clear arrow and the word 'Candlekeep' written across in Thorass script.

Two male figures sat against the marker enjoying a small meal. As Ashura and Imoen cautiously approached the figures rose to their feet, one tall and twig-thin, the other stocky and short as a human child. A closer look and Ashura realized that the shorter one was hardly childlike; he had broad shoulders, a thick build, and wore armor of interlocking leather sheets and a sword at his hip. The short man's face was weathered and scarred in a few spots, and there was a mop of unruly dark hair on his head. A halfling or gnome she guessed (how do you tell the difference anyway? She'd never read a book that rightly explained that.)

The taller man seemed human, though nearly as gaunt as an elf and finely dressed in sturdy green traveler's clothes. There was some sort of crest depicting a dragon on his vest and beneath he wore a billowing shirt with matching trousers and black boots. The look of nobility ended with the clothes though. Black face paint accented the man's eyes with lines that looked like long tears, and there was paint around his lips that seemed to extend his smile. Two lines of dots were drawn across the man's forehead, and combined with his wildly disheveled, sandy-brown hair the paint gave the man a clown-like appearance. The manic gleam in his eye and exaggerated bow that he gave Ashura and Imoen didn't help either.

"You poor children," he said in a sing-song voice as she stepped forward. "Are you lost? These woods are no place for you to roam."

"Definitely not," the short man said gruffly as he munched on an apple. "This be a risky road, 'specially these days. They look scuffed up a bit too."

"We're fine," Ashura snarled, resting a hand on the hilt of her sword.

The human waved a calming hand. "Oh Montey," he said to the shorter man, "stop being such a bore." He raised his hands; palms open, and addressed the young women. "We're not bandits, if that's what you fear. Just travelers, much as you." He pulled a bottle that contained a bright blue liquid from his pockets. "Here. Aan altruistic gesture. A healing potion. For whatever's under those bandages."

Ashura's eyes stayed narrow but she carefully took the bottle from his hand.

"Oh come now, it's perfectly safe," the man sang. "I _suggest_ you trust me." He gave her a winning smile and despite everything Ashura found herself smiling back. Before she knew it she had unstopped and downed the blue liquid. She expected bitterness but it actually tasted a little flowery. A warm itch seemed to run through her body and she shivered, resisting the urge to scratch at her bandages. As the itch faded so did the dull ache of her burnt shoulder and the sharp pains in her arm and thigh. She checked beneath one of the bandages and found that under the crusted blood the wound had closed.

"Thank you," Ashura said with a whisper.

"Xzar," the man replied. "That's my name at least. My little companion is named Montey."

"That's Montaron," the short man barked. "One day yer gonna use that pet name a time too many."

Xzar ignored his partner and continued to smile his over-wide smile. "Now," he said, "there's no reason to repay my sacrifice of that most delicious potion, but perhaps your conscious will urge you to assist us in something."

"Uh," Imoen stepped forward, nudging Ashura with an elbow and giving her an uncertain look. "We don't need to help you with anything. Honestly we have business up the road. And you're a little too smooth." She looked askance at Ashura and in a lower voice murmured. "I mean really, these guys are kinda…"

With a jolly and dismissive wave of his hand Xzar laughed . "Oh pish!" he said. "We're completely harmless and trustworthy. I _suggest_ you realize that."

"Hrm," Imoen considered. Suspicion was replaced by a ponderous look.

"Now to my offer," Xzar spoke quickly. "My partner and I are on something of a diplomatic mission looking into the iron crisis that plagues the coast."

"Iron crisis?" Ashura asked.

"My, you are sheltered aren't you? Yes, for some reason the iron in this region has suddenly become all brittle and breaksy. Swords shatter on shields and plows kept breaking in the fields this sowing season. Terrible business, those poor poor farmers."

Montaron snorted. "Plight of dirt diggers," he said sarcastically. "Sad stuff indeed."

"You may not care," Xzar said dismissively, "but our masters do. Or at least they wish to learn what is destroying the iron, lest the same fate befall them. So we're traveling to the town of Nashkel where the crumbling iron seems to be mined, to meet with the mayor and offer our," he did a quick courtly bow, "assistance."

Xzar then tilted his head and gave Ashura an appraising look. "You seem fit and strong, and I trust you know how to use those swords?" Ashura responded with the slightest of nods as Xzar turned to Imoen and asked "And you're a decent shot with that bow?"

"Dunno," she said. "I did just kill a wolf with it." She smiled proudly at that.

That seemed enough for Xzar, who clapped and with a manic grin said "Good then. You see, the roads are rough these days, brimming with bandits and worse. For our little mission we could use some bodyguards. We'll pay handsomely of course."

"That's ah…quite a thing to ask," Ashura muttered.

"Seems a fine occupation for armed vagabonds," Xzar said with a shrug.

Imoen and Ashura shared a glance. "That's what we are I guess," Imoen said. "Might as well."

Ashura nodded. "Okay. I guess we might as well. For now."

Xzar clapped his hands again. "Excellent!" he sang. "We're heading for the Friendly Arm Inn to stock up for the journey south and meet with a contact of ours."

"Aye," Montaron muttered. "They say the place has the finest bath houses in these parts, steamin' and everything. We been pushin' through the wilderness near a tenday and some washing and airing out is damned long overdue."

"Oh," Ashura said with a frown. "We were going to meet some people at the Friendly Arm." Why hadn't she remembered that before?

Xzar gave her a strange look. "Really? Oh. Well," the manic tone returned to his voice, "that's what Friendly Arms are for. Shall we be off?" Without waiting for acknowledgement he turned and began down the road.

Ashura continued frowning as she found herself falling in step behind the strange man in green. Khalid and Jaheira. Her father's old friends. She had been about to forget her father's last instructions and set out on an adventure into the unknown. Then again maybe it didn't matter. She knew nothing except for those two names and a place. Maybe one direction was as good as any other, when you're just an armed vagabond lost in the woods.

In the end she just blamed it on the confusing whirlwind the past two days had been and walked on.

* * *

The crossroads at the end of the Way of the Lion was marked by a tall standing stone decorated with whorls and ornate patterns. Arrows directing to the Friendly Arm, Candelkeep and Beregost were carved into various faces of the monolith. Tittering sounds from behind the stone broke the silence of the road as Ashura and Imoen approached. Imoen knocked an arrow and Ashura drew her swords, their pace slowing.

"Identify yourselves!" Ashura shouted.

No response save more tittering. Then several blue-skinned, goblin-like creatures stepped out from behind the pillar, each about the size of a halfling. The creatures grinned manically, small swords in hand. They were dressed in simple rags, and their heads were oversized and bald. Two…five…Ashura counted at least eight of the little things as they fanned out. One of them issued a high pitched cry and then without hesitation they charged, rushing across the cobbles on their stumpy little legs, swords ready for blood.

Imoen's bow sang and one of the goblinoids dropped, grasping at an arrow in his chest. Then the little creatures reached Ashura and she found herself turning and hopping around as she tried to avoid half a dozen swords. She managed to stab one of the creatures through its massive skull, delivering a kick to disengage her weapon as her other sword swept and parried.

Something stung at Ashura's lower back and she whirled, slashing back and slicing a wide gash across one of the goblinoid's necks. It sank to its knees, grasping at the wound. With an underhanded stab she skewered another on her sword, kicking its shoulder as she tried to yank her weapon free. There was a loud snap as most of the sword broke off inside the dying creature's chest.

"Shit!" Ashura gasped as she hopped back, two of the little goblin swords missing her by a finger's width. She held her broken sword behind her and kept her good weapon between herself and the rest of the creatures.

There was a quick, faint ripple through the air that gave Ashura gooseflesh, and the fearless little beasts stopped advancing. A change came across their faces. Their eyes were suddenly wide and their heads swiveled back and forth frantically, then as one they let out an inhuman scream and turned to flee.

Ashura managed to hook a foot under the nearest fleeing creature's ankle and it hit the cobblestones head-first. She followed through with a decisive stab to its back then chased another creature down and felled it with a couple of slashes, the last one to the neck. The last of the moving goblinoid's fell to the ground a few paces from her, two arrows in its back. She glanced around to see if any had escaped but counted two more unmoving creatures with arrows sticking out. All dead by her estimate.

Behind the young women Xzar clapped his hands. "See!" he shouted gleefully. "A fine job you pair did guarding our bodies. And Montaron had his doubts."

With a giggle Ashura turned back and gave Xzar a proud smile.

"I suppose you know the iron crisis now," Xzar remarked as he nodded at her broken sword.

"Yeah," Ashura said, tossing the hilt away. "Bought the damn thing yesterday." She turned to the corpses of the goblins and picked out a replacement sword; crude and nicked but the best of the bunch.

A ponderous frown crossed her face as she squatted there examining the weapon. She had never been the giggling type before. Why was she tittering like a milkmaid at this stranger's compliments and bad jokes? He certainly looked the part of a clown but...

Not to mention that Xzar and Montaron had stood back while her and Imoen did the dirty work of killing those goblins. She had even taken a slash to the back, though feeling the spot it seemed the creature's sword hadn't broken through her armor and it would leave little beyond a nasty bruise. On the other hand the goblins had obviously been hit by some sort of fear spell, and the halfling was too heavily armored to be a spell-slinger. She had taken Xzar for an eccentric fop, but apparently he was also some sort of mage. Should have known, if half the stories are to be believed those two roles are hardly mutually exclusive. _Hm_.

Imoen was squatting beside Ashura now, searching the corpses and fishing out some coins and plain jewelry that was probably pillaged from less fortunate travelers. She showed off a shiny ring and necklace to Ashura like they were the crown jewels of Tethyr.

"You're such a magpie Ims," Ashura said, shaking her head.

Finished with the dead creatures they got to their feet and turned back to the northern road.

* * *

The sun had long set on their second day of travel by the time they caught sight of the Friendly Arm Inn. Montaron and Xzar carried a tent but the previous night had been clear and the four had slept under the stars. Ashura and Imoen had been introduced to some of the nuances of camping out in the wilderness they hadn't learned on childhood trips, namely keeping a rotating watch and picking a campsite that would be hard for bandits to spot.

The "inn" was actually a fully walled fortress, complete with a dry moat and drawbridge. Lightly armored guards lounged beneath the gate and more patrolled in the grassy courtyard beyond. Draped at either side of the gate were long banners that depicted an arm holding a blue flag aloft.

"For a place called the 'Friendly Arm' this sure is intimidating," Imoen remarked as they passed under the spikes of the portcullis.

"They say its cozy enough inside," Montaron said with a shrug. "And damned secure. Think I'm gonna find the bathouse first off. Haven't had a good steam in ages." He wandered off through the various outbuildings in the courtyard and Xzar wordlessly followed. Montaron scowled over his shoulder. "You needn't be attached to my backside at all hours!" he growled.

"Worry not Monty," Xzar replied, "I'll keep a respectful distance. Just have to make sure you don't get in trouble. Orders are orders."

With an exasperated sigh Montaron walked on, following a sign that pointed to the baths. Imoen and Ashura walked past, heading towards the central keep. Welcoming lights shone from every story of the building. As they drew closer the faint murmur of many voices and the rhythms of music and song drifted down from the windows of the keep. A friendly guard pointed them towards the taproom, explaining that it was up a single flight of wide stone steps on the second story of the building.

As the pair approached those steps a man who had been leaning against the wall at the top took notice and began to glide down the stairs. He looked to be middle aged, a hint of grey at his temples, fit and thin and dressed in modest but well made traveler's cloths. As they mounted the first few steps the stranger gave Ashura a warm smile.

"Greetings young ladies," he said in a deep and resonant voice. "Might I ask from whence you hail?"

Ashura gave the slightest of shrugs. "Nowhere in particular. Just vagabonds."

The man shook his head. "No. I…I get the distinct impression that you hail from Candlekeep."

Before Ashura could say anything Imoen gave a cheery reply. "Maybe we do. We're supposed to meet some friends here at the Friendly Arm. You wouldn't happen to be Khalid would you?"

The man's smile brightened and Ashura found herself tensing, hand hovering over the hilt of a sword. There was something off.

"Indeed that is my name, and indeed I think we're going to be great friends," the man said. There was something about his eyes…they brightened, gleaming with unnatural light. Ashura found that she couldn't look away, couldn't move. Her heart quickened.

"I don't know who you are, little redhead," the man continued, "but I recognize Ashura here. I have something for her. Fear not, you'll hardly feel a thing." With that his fingers began to dance and beneath his breath he began to chant.

A bowstring thumped and an arrow shot over Ashura's shoulder, striking an unseen barrier near the man's chest and clanking to the steps. Instantly she was shaken out of her hypnotic fugue, either from the shock of an arrow zipping past her ear or the disruption it caused to the man's spell. Her swords leapt from their sheaths. She lunged.

Both swords slashed in unison and struck the barrier, faltering then pushing through. She managed to draw two shallow slashes across the man's coat and sent him stumbling back up the stairs. He kept his footing, hopping up and up.

"So you're going to be feisty about it?" he snarled as he danced backwards. "That's fine. _Fiel siev faeda_."

In a dazzling flash the man seemed to divide into two, then four identical version of himself. Ashura slashed out at the spot she thought he had been standing when he began the spell but her swords just met empty air as one of the illusory men flickered out. Imoen loosed another arrow but it also passed through illusion.

As they attacked the fakes the hands of every duplicate wove round and round, the man's voice singing another spell. There was a crackle between his palms, then a sharp boom that split the night air. Ashura gasped and leaped to the side. There was a blinding flash of light and an explosive boom somewhere behind her. She felt a sting somewhere along her flanks as chunks of stone rained down around her and bounced off the steps.

Ashura forced herself to her feet. There was a smoking hole in the wall nearby, and Imoen was lying prone on the steps farther down. The stranger was down to two images, one real and one illusory. As the man pointed a finger at Ashura and opened his mouth she charged up the steps and drove both swords into the leftward image. Her plan was to slash out at the right one next, but she felt a satisfying connection as the swords sank into real flesh.

The stranger's eyes bulged and he gasped, struggling as Ashura shoved and shoved with her weapons. As he let out a raw-throated sigh the man sank further onto Ashura's swords and then slumped against her. She struggled to support the weight as she felt a few shudders run through his body. Then he was still.

With a grunt and a shove Ashura pushed the man away. His body slid off her swords and onto the steps, eyes wide and staring at nothing. She took a few steps back. "What in the Nine Hells was that about?" she panted, wondered aloud.

"Good question," a gruff voice behind her barked. She whirled around and there near the bottom of the steps stood three guards. Their faces were grim and two had crossbows out and ready. Between them Imoen sat on a step, rubbing her head. The blast from the thunderclap had knocked her off her feet but there were no visible injuries.

"Uh," Ashura lowered her swords. "He attacked us."

"Says you," one of the guards growled back. "We brook no trouble here."

"I wasn't looking for trouble," Ashura growled right back. She found the crossbows trained squarely at her chest and one of the guards coughed. With a sigh Ashura dropped her swords. They hit the steps with a clang, along with Imoen's bow.

The guards cautiously climbed the steps, eying the body. Imoen walked past it and stood beside Ashura, reaching over and squeezing her arm. A moment later a fourth guard arrived, jogging up the steps. She wore heavier armor than the others; a combination of boiled leather and thick strips of steel, and the other guards inclined their heads to her. The woman's hair was blonde and cut boyishly short and her face was crisscrossed with scars. "A fight eh?" the newcomer asked. "Don't suppose anyone saw who threw the first blow?"

The other three guards shook their heads. "No captain," one admitted.

The woman walked up further, inspecting the black singe marks and hole in the wall. "Quite a fight too, complete with spell-slinging." She walked over to the body, nudging it with her toe and frowning. As she peered down her frown deepened. "Did you know this man?" she asked in Imoen and Ashura's direction.

The pair both shook their heads. "No idea who he is," Ashura volunteered. "He just asked my name and when I told him he attacked. Cast some sort of dazzling spell, then," she motioned towards the scar on the wall, "worse." She winced a bit from the motion, noticing all the little aches in her body as adrenaline faded. Reaching around she pulled a jagged piece of stone from her backside. It was pebble-sized but sharp, and a little bloody. Her armor felt singed around the place it had bit into. "Nearly hit me too." She dropped the bit of debris and carefully dislodged another and another. _Ouch_.

The captain chuckled. "I see." She turned back to the body, squatting over him and humming to herself. The hum turned into a whistle. "Yep," she said. "This is Tarnesh. Definitely him." She looked up and studied the young women's faces.

Ashura shrugged. "Who's that?"

"Well known assassin on the coast. Had a run in with him once when I was guarding caravans. Bastard toasted some little noble girl who was traveling with us then vanished. Real good with illusions. Seems like you did us all a favor." She gave Ashura an even look in the eye. "We have a problem though."

Ashura gave her a blank look.

"My job's to keep trouble out of the Mirrorshades' house. Letting someone with assassins after them under the roof kind of runs counter to that."

Ashura sighed and rubbed the back of her neck.

"So assassins are after you?" the captain asked.

"Apparently," Ashura snapped. After the guardswoman made a questioning gesture with her hands she added "Don't blood know why."

"I get the impression he's not the first though," the captain pressed.

"I don't know," Ashura said, shaking her head. "My father was killed last night by strangers on the road. I escaped but I guess they want to kill me too, whoever they are. We were supposed to meet some friends here at the Inn and we were hoping they'd have some answers."

"Who are you meeting?"

"Khalid and Jaheira."

The captain's eyes shot open and she looked taken aback. "Oh." After a pause she said "I see. So you're one of those folks who…" She made a pantomiming gesture, as if she were holding a small harp and plucking the strings.

Imoen and Ashura both just looked at her like she was crazy.

"Guess not," said the captain. "Hm. Well, as long as you don't cause any trouble you can go in and meet with them. I stay out of the business of those who…" She made the plucking gesture again.

"Uh, okay. No trouble, we promise." Ashura squatted, gesturing towards her swords and asked "Can we..?

The captain nodded slightly. "Just keep 'em sheathed."

The taproom of the Friendly Arm Inn was well lit and immense, probably the feasthall of the keep before it was converted. Smoke clung to the high rafters and the room was thick with the cloying smell of pipes and spilt ale. Most of the tables were occupied and the loud hum of conversation echoed off the walls. Above the din of the patrons rang a lively musical jig from a fife, drum and vocal company in one corner of the room. One of the minstrels, a woman, was singing a wordless song in a high but pleasant pitch, a sort of "La ti da da, ti da da, ti da da."

A waitress directed Ashura and Imoen to a table in the corner where two men and a woman sat. They all had their eyes fixed on the young women in an instant, and exchanged whispers as they approached. As the pair weaved their way through the crowd one of the men rose to his feet. He was a weather-worn fellow in drab grey and orange traveling cloths. Over the din Ashura half-heard and half-saw him mouth the words "I'll take my leave."

"Very well, Jopi," the woman said with a thick Tetheryn accent.

As the common looking man passed Imoen and Ashura he gave them a warm smile and a light bow before disappearing into the crowd.

The remaining man and woman eyed the pair of girls, exchanged some words and then stood. The man waved a hand in greeting and gestured towards the table. He wore a coat of scalemail, and a steel helmet sat on the table in front of him. A warrior ready for trouble. He seemed a bit nervous too.

The woman was dressed in a practical looking mix of green cloth and boiled leathers. She had long, chessnut-brown hair, a long narrow nose and piercing brown eyes. Both the man and woman had olive-brown skin; the man's a bit duskier than his partner, as well as slightly pointed ears and oddly tilted eyes that marked them as elf-blooded.

Before they could reach the table the woman stepped forward and addressed Ashura. "Hm. You match the description. Ashura right? A girl with Damaran features, alabaster-white skin, raven-black hair, ice-blue eyes. You even have a bit of Gorion's bearing, though it insults him to say so."

Ashura raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"My w-wife means no of-offence," the half-elven man stuttered.

"I don't?" the woman asked coldly.

The man sighed. "We…we w-were simply told much of you by Gorion. Where is he b-by the way?"

Ashura eyed her feet. The couple caught on instantly. "Ah, I see," the woman said.

"On the road," Ashura said softly, "we were attacked and he…"

The half-elven woman reached out and gently gripped Ashura's shoulder. "Don't trouble yourself overmuch child. Gorion had many enemies. It was not unexpected that he would meet his end…that way."

"Well, it was all a surprise to me," Ashura muttered. She looked up. "What are your names?"

The woman raised an eyebrow. "I am Jaheira. This is my husband Khalid."

Ashura smiled weakly. "Good to know."

"I don't 'spose Mr. G told you two about me?" Imoen piped in.

Jaheira pursed her lips, pondering for a moment. "Imoen I suppose? The other foundling, with red hair."

"Aw," Imoen pouted. "Ashura got to have raven-dark hair but that's all the description Gorion gave? Not 'hair like spun fire, ruby red lips, legs that won't quit, eyes like sapphires?'"

Jaheira frowned. "How old are you anyway?"

Imoen raised a finger. "That's a very good question actually. We've never been entirely sure. Mr. G brought us both in when we were toddlers. We're both about the same age and we think it's something like eighteen or nineteen but hard to tell. And let me tell you, it was pretty crummy not having a birthday growing up. Until I got the idea that me and Shura could just celebrate our birthday whenever since any day could be it. Maybe three or four times a year."

"I see," Jaheira stated dryly, taking a seat and gesturing for them to do the same. "Trust me, Gorion will not go unavenged." She cocked her head as she watched Ashura cringe and shift on her stool. "Are you well child?"

"Hardly," Ashura scowled. Realizing that Jaheira was referring to her shifting she added "Oh, the injury? I got hit by some bits of stone when a lightning bolt hit a wall. It's not bad."

"A lightning bolt?"

Ashura sighed and nodded. "Guess you couldn't hear over the din in here. Just outside the inn we were attacked by a mage. I don't know why. But one of the guards said he was a known assassin. I got a little singed by one of his lightning bolts. Didn't give him a chance to throw a second."

Jaheira nodded. "Sylvanis grants me some healing abilities, if you want me to treat your injuries later."

"That would be nice. It's not too bad though. Not as bad as the wolf bite. We've um…had quite a time getting here."

"I see," Jaheira said with a fretful look on her face. She shook her head slightly. "An assassin."

"Uh huh," Imoen said as she pulled something out of her pocket and set it on the table: a rolled up piece of parchment. She unfurled it.

Ashura's heart leapt in her chest as she studied the paper. It was a bounty notice with her name on it. There was a brief description of her, a note that she had last been seen leaving Candlekeep and a promise of two hundred gold coins for her head. There was no sign or even sigil indicating who was offering the bounty. No doubt a connected assassin would know what channels to go through.

"I swiped this off Tarnesh's body," Imoen explained.

"When?" Ashura asked incredulously.

"When no one was looking of course!"

"What else did you swipe?"

"A spellbook, a couple of magic scrolls and this," Imeon said proudly as she set a pouch onto the table that clinked with the sound of coins.

"I'm impressed," Ashura admitted.

"I'll have to watch my coin purse around you child," Jaheira noted.

"Pfft!" Imeon scoffed. "Don't worry aunty Jaheira, I don't steal from family."

"Of course." Jaheira turned back to the bounty notice. "Regardless, this is disturbing. Do you have any idea why someone would want you dead?"

Ashura shook her head.

"I don't know what Gorion's plan was," Jaheira said, "but I think it would be best if you traveled with Khalid and I until this is sorted out."

Ashura shrugged.

"We're on a mission, you see," Jaheira continued. "I had hoped for Gorion's assistance in fact. We were to head south to the town of Nashkel after our meeting, where we've been sent to investigate the iron crisis."

There was a sonorous chuckle behind them. "What a remarkable coincidence," Xzar exclaimed in his sing-song voice. "So were we." The face paint was gone and Xzar's hair looked wet and clean.

Jaheira glared and Khalid's hand drifted to the hilt of his sword. "Who's this?" Jaheira hissed.

"It's okay," Ashura said. "This man helped us on the road. He's nice. Gave us some healing potions."

"And a job," Imeon said with a giggle.

Xzar nodded. "These noble lasses agreed to guard my body and that of my partner along the road. You'd be surprised, they're capable fighters." Xzar pointed at Ashura. "Especially this one." She found herself beaming with pride.

"And you're investigating the iron crisis?" Jaheira asked incredulously.

Xzar nodded. "On behalf of my master, Lord Feramont of Waterdeep." He tapped the silver dragon badge on his coat, as if the sigil explained everything. "We are to meet with Mayor Berrun Ghastkill himself and, gods willing, rectify this iron problem. I'd be happy if we traveled together. The roads are harsh these days, and safer shared."

Ashura didn't think it was possible but Jaheira's frown somehow grew deeper. "Perhaps." After a pause she added "Khalid and I have rented a large room upstairs. There's plenty of room for these two young ladies, and they will be staying with us."

The grin on Xzar's face never wavered. "Of course, of course," he said. "Believe it or don't, I'm quite happy to see these young beauties well chaperoned."

"Uh huh." Jaheira was not convinced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Old school D&D is sure full of weird little creatures that act exactly like goblins but look slightly different, so I figured people would call them "Goblin-looking things" instead of xvarts, tasoli, dakani and whatnot.
> 
> Also instead of making Xzar an over-the-top cartoony kind of insane I'm aiming more for him being sly, sinister and just a bit off. I also decided to make the markings on his face painted instead of tattoos like they're usually portrayed as. The Baldur's Gate portraits never make it clear if the characters are wearing warpaint or facial tattoos, so I figured I wouldn't have them all (Xzar, Minsc, Shar-Teel, Coran, Faldorn, and maybe some characters I'm forgetting,) tattooed. And it kind of fits Xzar's personality that he'd draw weird patterns on his face depending on his mood.
> 
> Oh, and some people might notice that elements of this story were inspired by the Baldur's Gate NPC project, though I'll probably take a lot of liberties of my own with various characters.


	3. Unfriendly Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein crowded inns make for strange bedfellows.

_"But as long as the beasts were ugly,_

_We could stab 'em_

_And take their money,"_ –Unknown Bard, "Bandits or Adventurers?"

 

 

* * *

Somewhere in the darkness a skull leered. Fire danced in its eyes and a halo of glowing droplets swirled about its face. Somehow Ashura knew that the droplets were tears. Tears of blood.

She shot up and awake with a gasp. Imoen stirred beside her in the darkness and sleepily murmured, "Bad dream?" Imoen was lying the way she always did: splayed out on her belly and taking up as much space as she could.

"Yeah," Ashura whispered, sliding back down. "Don't usually dream."

"Don't usually go through the kind of stuff you did the past few days neither," Imoen mumbled. Ashura felt the pat of her friend's hand over the covers. "It'll be okay."

In moments Imoen's breathing became light and even, but Ashura just couldn't get back to sleep. Instead she lay in the darkness and stared up at the rafters. Sometime later tears found their way to the corners of her eyes and before she knew it she was quietly sobbing. When the tears had run their course she rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, rolled onto her side and tried to find a few fitful hours of rest.

When the light of dawn began to peak through the window she gave up on sleep and kicked the bed sheets aside. She sat and stretched for a moment, then dug her toes into the woolen rug that covered most of the floor and stood, nude and stretching in the growing light.

Khalid groaned quietly from the other bed. "Didn't the monks teach you m-modesty?" he complained.

Ashura snorted.

"Tried once or twice," Imoen said sleepily as she stirred and took advantage of the extra blankets. "But when you grow up stuffed in with the seven other girls in the keep you give up on stuff like having privacy. 'Specially when the boy's dorm is right there across the way and Marni or Sam or Phlydia are always flinging doors open."

"Don't be squeamish Khalid," Jaheira muttered, rolling out from under the covers. "It's nothing you haven't seen before."

Like the stories said half-elves were relatively free of body hair; Jaheira had just a little and Khalid's chest was completely bare. Ashura was a bit jealous of the lack of grooming the woman probably needed to go through.

The three women went about their morning business, taking turns with the chamber pot, the washing basin and the tall central mirror where they combed their hair. With a little prompting from his wife Khalid joined them and as she dressed Ashura stole a few sidelong glances at the half-elven man. He was slender but all muscle, lean and firm, virtually hairless and modestly endowed. _Not bad_. She caught a scowl from Jaheira and tried to look innocent.

As they went about primping and dressing the four chatted a bit about the coming journey to the south. Apparently the Friendly Arm was packed right now with gossiping travelers afraid to move freely along the coast because of relentless bandit attacks. Whole well-armed caravans were disappearing regularly, especially on the route between Beregost and Baldur's Gate.

"There's something off about that honey-tongued companion of yours," Jaheira said as she tightened the straps of her leathers, "but I must admit traveling with a full war-party may be best. You said the fop has a partner? What's he like."

"A mean looking halfling warrior," Ashura stated.

"Aw," Imoen exclaimed. "Monty's not so bad."

Ashura gave her a doubtful look.

 

 

* * *

Not many people occupied the common room when they entered but the smell of fresh bacon was thick in the air. There was a rich morningfeast available: soft bread, a thick potato and vegetable stew and bacon. They washed it all down with honeyed tea. Midway through the meal Xzar and Montaron arrived and invited themselves to the table. The black paint was back on Xzar's face, this time in seemingly random waves and whorls.

Montaron nimbly hopped onto the oversized stool and slouched forward. He sized up the two half-elves with a quick glance before he began to greedily munch on a piece of bread. "So these are the two that also be headed to Nashkel?" he asked between bites. Before anyone had time to answer he added, "I've no objection to traveling together if you don't."

Jaheira gave the halfling a narrow, pondering look. "We'll share the road south then," she said. "But I will be keeping an eye on you."

"Suit yourself," Montaron said without looking up from his meal, "but I won't be keepin' a single eye on you. You'll see. Me and Xzar be perfect gentlemen."

Within the hour the six of them were walking down the steps of the keep together. They passed under the gate of the Friendly Arm and headed south, keeping to the worn stones and gravel of the Coastway road as it curved gently around mossy boulders and through sparse trees. Morning mist clung to the lands around them, obscuring the towering trees of the Cloakwood to the west.

 

 

* * *

A day of walking and a night of camping under the stars went by quietly. The only company they met along the road was an old ranger who told them that their trudging was too loud and would attract gibberlings (whatever those were,) but no gibberlings appeared and the forests and fields they passed were peaceful and empty.

It was midafternoon on the second day when Khalid spotted something large on the road ahead and the group slowed their march. The low hum of buzzing insects emanated from the object.

As they crept closer it became clear that the object was an overturned cart, two wheels in the air and bits of wood strewn all about. The sound came from clouds of flies that hovered above the cart. Lots of them.

Jaheira instantly had a leather sling out and in her hand with a round stone ready to be launched. She eyed some bushes between two stands of trees nearby, no doubt the best cover for an ambush. Imoen followed suit, knocking an arrow and watching the same spot as they silently drew closer to the cart.

The flies were buzzing over the corpses of two men that lay in the dirt nearby, face down and in the early stages of decomposition. Both bodies wore badly torn woolen shirts and trousers. Their shoes and whatever else they had of value had been looted and the cart looked skeletal. There was no sign of the animals that had pulled the cart. Some broken barrels and shattered crates were scattered about here and there and that was it.

They approached and carefully examined the stretch of bushes nearby, but found nothing and silently turned back to the road. Ashura noticed that Montaron was squatting by the broken cart and poking at it. A moment later he rose with a triumphant look on his face and a small bit of cloth in hand that he had pulled from beneath a board. When he unrolled the cloth a few gold coins fell into his palm. "They always miss something," he told Ashura with a toothy smile.

A few more nervous glances and they continued down the road. After they had put some distance between themselves and the cart Imoen asked, "Do you think it was goblins? We got attacked by some on the way to the Friendly Arm."

Jaheira shrugged. "It could have been any sort of bandit. I think those men were killed by arrows, but if so the attackers scavenged them afterwards."

"Yikes," Imeon said, suspiciously eying the nearby bushes and cradling her bow.

A tense, empty hour passed as they continued down the road and eventually came to an ancient stone bridge that crossed a trickling brook. The bridge was worn and moss-covered; the stream deep enough that a few clumps of reeds clung to the banks and swayed in the breeze.

As Ashura walked down the far side of the bridge at the head of the group she heard a faint twang and her heart lurched. Before she could react there was a sharp sting in her abdomen and her body bent as if she'd been punched. She found a howl of pain and rage leaving her lips and her swords slid from their sheathes. There was a tapping noise beside her as Khalid locked his sword against his shield and charged forward, towards a nearby stand of trees beyond the bridge.

Ashura rushed forward as well and quickly outpaced Khalid. The arrow that had struck her wobbled out and got trampled under her feet. If there was a wound it was shallow. Two more arrows hissed by and she bent forward, trying to make herself a small target. She could see the figures under the trees now: humans by the look of them, in mismatched brown or black leathers and hooded cloaks.

The nearest attacker was a man with a boyish face and bright-blonde hair. He was hastily knocking another arrow as Ashura closed the distance. She slashed at the bow, knocking it aside. She pivoted as she did, stabbing forwards with her other sword. The man scrambled and crawled backwards, evading the tip of the blade.

Her opponent managed to pull a sword from its sheath and parry as Ashura slashed at him again. He had abandoned his bow completely and used the other hand to launch himself onto his feet. Somewhere close behind Ashura heard steel ring against steel as Khalid joined the melee. With her right side facing the blonde man and thick brush clinging to her ankles Ashura pressed the attack, trying to strike his sword aside so she could follow through with a left-handed attack.

Movement to her left.

Ashura's offhand weapon parried and met another sword with a clang. A woman in black leathers with greasy brown tresses that framed her face like the snakes of a medusa was trying to overwhelm her. The woman slashed again and again from the left with her longsword, and for a horrifying moment Ashura was frantically parrying both attackers. She ducked under a high stroke from the woman as she barely managed to push aside a stab from the man, the edge of his sword grazing her armor.

Suddenly the blonde man's feet wobbled like pudding and he sank to his knees. Montaron appeared behind him, grinning over the man's shoulder as he tilted the blonde's head back and flicked his dagger across the man's neck.

Ashura whirled towards the woman in black leathers, both blades singing. She pushed in close, nullifying the reach of the woman's longer weapon, and in a few furious strokes she had the hilt of her left-hand blade locked with the hilt of the woman's sword as she drove her right-hand weapon cleanly through her enemy's neck. The woman let out a chocked gurgle and her sword fell to the earth. With a kick to the woman's belly Ashura dislodged her weapon and turned to find another target.

Khalid was fending off blows from a man in brown with his shield, his sword stuck in the body of a hooded woman he had skewered. Ashura closed the five paces between her and the man but he whirled to meet her, parrying her first few attacks. After a few close slashes she managed to lock his sword high with both blades and sweep his feet out from under him with a kick. As the man plunged face-first to the ground Ashura drove both her blades into his back with a downward stab. He struggled for a few breaths, pinned to the earth, and then the struggles turned into spasms.

She stomped on the center of the man's back and yanked the swords free, looking up in time to see that another attacker had backed away from the melee and knocked an arrow. The bowman began to aim but then shuddered and dropped his weapon as a stream of dark tendrils struck him. His face grew inhumanly gaunt, his arms shrinking to skeletal proportions. Ashura gasped, her eyes following the wisps of dark energy to their source at Xzar's fingertips. Necromancy! Xzar was draining the very life from the man as she watched.

The spell didn't kill the bowman outright, but with a few quick slashes Montaron's sword finished it. Shaking herself out of it Ashura turned and searched for another attacker. The woods were still and deathly quiet.

"H-help," a pained voice from the road cried. On the lip of the ditch sat Imoen, her hand clamped against an arrow that protruded from her chest, close to her right armpit. Ashura rushed to her side and knelt. Imoen had tears on her cheeks and in the corners of her eyes. Her breath was ragged.

Ashura frantically reached for the healing potion at her belt.

"Let me handle it," Jaheira said as she approached the pair. "Do not worry. It's not as severe at it looks." The half-elven woman held a smooth hickory club in one hand and her small wooden shield in the other. Blood and black gore dripped from the club as she dropped it and knelt beside Imoen. "Find one of their arrows," Jaheira ordered.

Though a little confused Ashura complied. She found a stray arrow nearby and handed it to Jaheira, who only glanced at the tip before tossing it away. "Good. They aren't barbed," she said. She turned to Ashura and continued. "Now, I need you to pull the arrow out." Then to Imoen: "Brace yourself child. This will be extremely painful but it will be over quickly."

Imoen nodded and Ashura carefully placed a hand on Imoen's shoulder, gripping the shaft of the arrow with the other. Jaheira readied an open palm. "Sorry Ims," Ashura whispered, taking a deep breath and then yanking the arrow with all her strength. It came out cleanly, along with a great splash of blood.

Imoen threw her head back and screamed as Jaheira quickly pressed her palm against the bleeding hole, speaking in a raspy language that Ashura did not recognize. A white-blue glow swelled around Jaheira's hand and against Imoen's bloodstained blouse.

Gradually Imoen's breaths came easier. "Thanks," she whispered to Jaheira, wiping the tears away with the heels of her hands. Jaheira turned away and went to searching the line of tress as the two young women sat there catching their breaths. It was a few moments before Ashura thought to check were the arrow had struck her at the beginning of the ambush. There was a rip in the leather where the armor covered her ribs and a slight scratch underneath but that was it. It looked like the arrowhead had been turned by a rivet when it struck and dug into the armor at an awkward angle. Very lucky.

All told there had been seven humans in the enemy party, all dressed in simple black or brown leather armor and armed with bows and longswords. They wore no symbol or badge, and seemed to be a simple gang of bandits. They carried little as well: coin pouches and cheep jewelry with a few scraps like fire-starting kits and lockpicks (Imoen snatched those up.) They had little else in the way of supplies, indicating that they probably had a camp nearby. Which direction the camp was and how well-hidden was anybody's guess.

"We need to get you some armor Ims," Ashura noted.

"Ya," Imoen replied with a sour look. "Part of a long list of things I wish I'd swiped before I left."

"Hm," Ashura mused. She kicked the corpse of the dark-haired female bandit she had killed. "I think she's about your size."

"Eww!" Imoen made a face. "Gross!"

Ashura used her foot to roll the corpse onto its back. "Your clothes are already covered in blood. And the leather's undamaged." She chuckled. "And if you won't wear it maybe it'll fetch a good price in Beregost."

"Hmph." Imoen pondered a moment. "Black isn't really my color."

"We can get you some purple armor later I suppose."

"Or I could dye it. Ohhh. Maybe paint it a bright shade of pink."

"Uh huh." Ashura rolled her eyes.

It was rather nice armor: high black boots, leather pants, long gloves and a top piece made of interlocking black leather strips connected by steel pins. And the armor turned out to fit Imoen comfortably.

They ended up stripping the undamaged bits from the rest of the corpses as well, each packing up a set of leather armor along with boots and gloves and attaching the swords to their packs. The jewelry and coin was divided up evenly.

"Me and Raven-Hair over there," Montaron said as he pointed to Ashura, "should get more of a share since we killed two a-piece." Jaheira just glared at him until he shrugged and gave a quick laugh. "It's how I'd do things, encourages competition. But you're the boss."

Leaving the strewn corpses of the bandits picked down to ragged underclothes or less they turned back to the south road.

 

 

* * *

The sun was gone and the orange glow was dimming to pale blue twilight when they spotted the smoke of Beregost's cookfires. One thankfully uneventful day had passed since the bandit attack and Imoen and Ashura were growing used to sleeping on the hard ground and the odd ritual of waking in shifts. By the time the group finally passed the outlying farms and reached the town of Beregost proper it was fully dark and the crickets were making quite a din. The sturdy cobbles of the Trade Way ended abruptly and branched out into several paths of packed dirt and gravel that wound around dozens of tall, sturdy-looking houses.

People were still milling about in the street, and one friendly man who was guiding a mule along the group's path stopped to greet them. He mentioned that they looked in need of directions, and when asked he recommended an inn called the Red Sheaf, calling it cheap, clean and quiet. When Ashura asked about a smithy the man's face lit up and he bragged about a place called Thunderhammer's, which he described as a large workhouse staffed with several skilled weaponsmiths and armorers.

Once the man and mule had moved along the party followed his directions and took the left-hand road into town. The houses of Beregost were all well-built, clean and brightly painted or whitewashed. Potted flowers or carefully groomed shrubs decorated the doorways and stoops that they passed.

It wasn't long before the smell of roasting meat was guiding them as much as the commoner's directions. A moment later they spotted a wooden sign depicting a bright red sheaf of wheat. They climbed a few rickety wooden steps and pushed open the door, Jaheira in the lead.

The common room of the Red Sheaf was dimly lit by a handful of overhead lamps. The soft murmur of the crowd reverberated off the roughhewn pine walls and floors. It wasn't a rowdy crowd; mostly middle aged men who looked to be farmers or craftsmen of some sort, with a few travelers here and there marked by their weatherworn cloaks. Most were human, though one traveler at the bar appeared to be a dwarf. Armor bulged under his thick cloak and a neatly forked brown beard was revealed as he turned and watched the group enter.

Jaheira and Xzar approached the fat inkeep and began to barter for rooms while Ashura found a barstool and stretched her limbs. "A tiring bit ofa hike eh?" Montaron asked as he hopped onto the stool beside her.

"Yeah," Ashura said as she accepted a clay cup of ale from a woman behind the bar. "Especially when you're watching for arrows the entire time."

"Well lass, this is the adventuring life," Montaron said as he waved the barkeep over. "Get used to it."

Ashura narrowed her eyes at the halfling. "Think I'm adapting just fine."

Montaron just gave her a glittering smile. "Oh, true true." He took a massive gulp of ale and wiped his mouth. "Fer a little babe fresh off the teat you show no hesitation when cutting comes. Ye trained well with those swords 'a yours."

"Thanks."

"You've a lot to learn about business that doesn't involve cutting though. And there are folks around who could show you quite a bit ta fill the gap."

"Like you?"

"Aye lass." Montaron's smile was almost friendly. "Fix your eyes and ears on me and you'll learn quite a bit."

"I'll keep that in mind. But besides cutting, what could you teach me?"

"Garroting. Hunting. Rigging up a tripwire. Dropping darfly or wyvern essence in some fool's cup. Proper vitals to aim for. No offense but like most big folk you swing those weapons around in a most imprecise manner."

Ashura found herself holding a hand over the lip of her drink at the mention of poisons. "I get it. You're a killer."

"Yer missing the point. You've a heart for the fight but ya just charge straight in. If the one avenue you know is ever cut off you'll be out'a luck. There's a hundred different paths to a good solid kill. You need to learn ta see and work all of 'em."

"I'll keep that in mind uncle Montaron."

The halfling laughed heartily and took a long drag of his ale. "You do. And thanks for not callin' me Monty."

Ashura wasn't sure if she should be pleased or shudder at the attention. The halfling was obviously a snake, but he seemed comfortable in his own scales. A stark contrast with Xzar, who was honest and forthright.

A strange feeling slithered through her at that thought. Something wasn't right but she just couldn't place it. She shook her head and lightly sipped her ale.

There was a whistle of steel through the air and a flash in the corner of Ashura's eye.

On instinct she pushed herself off the bar and bent back. Something rushed past her ear. Splinters flew as the head of a battleaxe split the surface of the bar near her fingers. She lurched back more, falling off the stool. When she hit the floor she crabwalked backwards as fast as she could.

Her attacker was the dwarf who had been watching them earlier. It took him a few breaths to yank the axe out of the wood and swing to face her. In that time Ashura had risen and drawn her swords.

The dwarf had a shield strapped to his off-arm and as Montaron rushed at him from the right the dwarf turned with surprising speed and drove its edge into the halfling's face. Montaron went flying backwards, blood spraying from his nose.

Ashura charged the dwarf with both swords swinging but he easily batted one weapon aside and blocked the second, which connected with the oak shield and promptly snapped. Loose shards of steel flew along with the end of the weapon. With a gasp Ashura hopped back, holding just the hilt of her lefthand sword and silently praying to Talos that the next time it would be the other guy's sword that broke.

The dwarf pressed the attack and Ashura's remaining sword locked with the underside of his axe again and again. She tried to press in close while the weapons were locked but hopped back with a gasp as the dwarf smacked her in the stomach with his shield. She tried to kick but came away with stinging toes when her foot connected with armor.

Another hop back as the dwarf slashed wide and Ashura felt a sting along her stomach. Another slash struck her in the hip, forcing her to back up again. Her armor took the worst of it but her right leg was growing numb. Soon there would be nowhere to retreat.

An armored blur flew past Ashura and the dwarf's axe bounced off the steel of a shield. Metal screeched against metal as Khalid's hand-and-a-half sword probed the dwarf's defenses. A twist and Khalid's shield slammed against the dwarf's as the half-elf managed to turn aside the axe and riposte, slashing down at the dwarf's wrist. The slash was absorbed by solid armor.

The dwarf was on the defensive now, backing a bit, bracing himself as he hefted his shield and blocked a blow to his head. Khalid bashed his opponent's shield with his own and in the same motion slipped his sword through; slashing at the dwarf's armored midsection. Torn scales clinked to the floor and the dwarf reeled.

Khalid braced his sword-arm back to deliver a stab but stopped when the dwarf lost his poise and threw his head back in a long, wheezing gasp. The axe and shield fell to the floor as the dwarf's arms went limp. A breath later he fell face first onto the floor.

Standing behind the dying dwarf was Montaron, his sword slick with blood from tip to hilt. He looked up at Khalid with a satisfied grin, upper lip bloody from the blow he had taken to the nose. "Once again I get the kill," Montaron teased.

"Wouldn't have s-stumbled onto y-you're blade if I h-hadn't pushed him there," Khalid growled out as defiantly as the perpetual stutter would allow.

"True enough," the halfling conceded with a silly little bow. "We share the credit for that one. Was a tough sonuvabitch."

"I-indeed."

As they had talked Jaheira and Imoen had rushed down the stairs into the common room. Both held weapons out and ready, but lowered them as Khalid waved his hand. They walked over to the body of the dwarven warrior. Jaheira poked him with her toe before squatting down to examine further. "Who was this man?" she asked.

"Doesn't matter," the fat innkeep answered with a snarl. "I won't abide no fighting under my roof, 'specially not with blades. You're not welcome here."

"We purchased rooms-" Jaheira began but the innkeep interrupted her by tossing a handful of coins in her face. She scowled as Khalid bent to pick the money up.

"Out! Now!" the innkeep bellowed, and in moments they were on the street, their baggage carelessly tossed out with them by some gruff looking maids.

In the darkness Xzar's teeth gleamed. "I didn't like that place anyway," he said. "Too rough and woody. Let's find somewhere with better carpeting."

After conferring a moment they headed down a southern street in the general direction of another inn that the peasant had mentioned. Soon they found themselves following the growing hum of distant pipe and drum music. Ashura slipped in beside Khalid as they walked and turned towards him. "You speak well with your sword," she noted.

He narrowed his eyes at her and said nothing.

Ashura shrugged. "Just a compliment."

The thump and whistle of the music emanated from the windows of a large building. A sign out front depicting the face of a laughing clown with white greasepaint and a hat full of bells, a placard beneath reading "The Jovial Juggler." Inside a small but raucous crowd danced and clapped to a wordless song in an open area of the common room, spinning on the worn hardwood floor. Apart from the revelers people sat in little clumps here and there around tables, sipping from tall mugs.

After carefully making their way to a table in a corner of the room the group ordered drinks and fixed their eyes on the handful of patrons wearing traveler's cloaks. Time passed by silently and none of the guests showed much interest in the party beyond a few curious looks and gossipy whispers.

Eventually Xzar and Khalid went to the bar to consult with the innkeep about rooms and sometime later Montaron disappeared.

Ashura turned her head as she felt Jaheira's hand rest upon her wrist. The Tetheryn woman's voice was low and measured. "Not too long ago," Jaheira began "Khalid was bold and forceful both with blade and voice."

"He still fights very-"" Ashura began but was silenced by a fingertip.

"Nearly a year ago we had a very unpleasant run-in with the Black Network. Khalid was captured and…tortured. It took several tendays for some associates and I to find his location and mount a rescue. He has…yet to fully recover." She peered off. "He may never."

"They uh…they hurt him that bad?" Imoen asked.

Jaheira shook her head. "It is difficult for the young and brash to understand, but the mind can be torn and frayed just as fully as the body. And in many cases it is more difficult to heal."

Imoen traced a fingertip around the lip of her cup. "I see," she said. "I'm sorry."

"He's strong," Jaheira said with a hint of pride. "Stronger than he thinks. You will see."

There was a long pause as the three slowly nursed their cups of ale and winter wine. Eventually Imoen broke the silence with the rustle of paper as she pulled a scroll from her many pockets. "Hate to add to your burdens," she said "but this was on the dwarf that attacked Shura. Urm…along with a pouch that added up to about fifty gold. How are we dividing treasure like that anyways?"

It was a bounty notice similar to the one they had found on Tarnesh. The price on Ashura's head was up to three hundred and fifty gold.

 

 

* * *

Captain Joia Ruthwhir was having a relatively good day. One of her men on the wall of the Friendly Arm had spotted a hobgoblin scout north of the keep. It was the second hobgoblin sighting this tenday and it was growing clear that she would need to put a sortie together soon to deal with the creatures.

On the plus side of the ledger there had been no thefts reported today and no barroom brawls in over a tenday. Tension had been thick at the inn earlier in the trade season as more and more travelers piled up, trapped by the bandit attacks along with the usual issues that came with the ankheg mating season. On the worst days it seemed the captain had some sort of fire to put out nearly every hour, but as the troublemakers were kicked out and the dangerous roads kept new arrivals away things had gotten easier.

Best of all the adventuring company that had stayed at the inn a few days ago and attracted the mage assassin had left without further incident, and there had been no dangerous looking guests since. Old Lulm had even patched up the hole the lightning bolt had put in the keep. If you looked closely you could see the new mortar but it was fine at a glance.

All told it was a good day. Until an earsplitting scream came from a storage shed near the bathhouse late in the afternoon.

The captain sighed before she began to sprint towards the shed, hand at the hilt of her sword. One of her guards reached the building at nearly the same time as she and together they burst through the doorway, blinking as their eyes adjusted to the darkness of the shed.

Lila, one of the maids, was cowering against the far wall. The captain and her underling glanced around a moment longer but all was still and silent. "Lila," the captain began. "What's going-"

The maid pointed at the other side of the storeroom. "C-captain Ruthwhir," she stammered, "it's a…a…"

The captain followed the terrified girl's finger to a tall clay jar that had been pulled aside from its place by a barrel of bath salts. From behind the barrel stretched an arm, palm open and slack. Captain Ruthwhir found herself gently twisting the flamedance ring on her left hand, a habit she was in when things got tense. _Please be a passed out drunk_ , she thought to herself as she approached. _Please just be a passed out drunk._

No such luck.

Wedged behind the barrel of salts and several jars of bath oils was the body of a man with youthful but windburnt features. The man was dressed in simple grey and orange clothes and his empty, bulging eyes and protruding tongue left no doubt that he was dead.

As she carefully slid the body out from where it had obviously been stuffed Captain Ruthwhir muttered, "Huh. I think I know this guy."

"Yeah," the other guard concurred. "That's Jopi isn't it? The courier from Baldur's Gate."

The captain examined the body further. "Stiff and cold. He's been here a while." Seeing something she pulled his collar back a bit. There was a deep black mark across his throat, tinged here and there with red. "Garroted," she noted grimly. Something gleaming caught her eye and she peeled the shirt back a bit further. Attached to a wisp-thin chain a tiny amulet rested against the corpse's chest.

The captain lifted the thing at the end of the chain and held it in the light. It was a tiny piece of silver depicting a harp resting within a crescent moon. Captain Ruthwhir gave a low whistle. "Wow," she said. "Guess we know why someone wanted him dead." She thought a moment then turned to her subordinate. "We'll have to do a full investigation of course but I have a hunch whoever did this is a problem for those half-elves now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One thing you sure seem to do a lot of in CRPGs is kill people in self-defense and then try on their clothes. It's kind of weird when you think about it.


	4. Hunters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein, for the first but far from last time, Ashura goes berserk

 

_"A hunting cat will only strike from behind, so never show it your back. Show the enemy your back and you've crossed the line between a battle and a hunt."_ – Nina Whitesun, _Memoir of a Warbitch_

 

* * *

"The bloodstains?" the blacksmith inquired. He was a tall, broad man with a boyish face and a tangled mop of sandy-blonde hair.

Ashura made a face. "Well, we picked these leathers off some bandits on the north road," she began, her eyes on the pile of mostly intact leather armor she had dropped on the floor.

"Oh," Thunderhammer replied. "Good riddance then. Those bastards have been blocking our shipments for a good two tendays now. Seems like there's an army of bandits out there."

"A few less now at least," Ashura said with a slight smile.

"True. In case you didn't know there's a guard captain in town who's paying a bounty for bandit scalps. If you decide to kill any more that is."

"Good to know." She wondered how anyone could tell that a severed scalp came from a bandit, but decided not to ask.

Convincing the smithy's owner to buy the bandits' armor and weapons was easier than Ashura had thought. Haggling over the price turned out to be more of a pain. Thunderhammer insisted that since steel weapons in the region were crumbling left and right the swords were next to worthless. This went against everything Ashura had read about the law of supply and demand and when she told him that he brushed her off and said that in a real market no one cares about "the laws of hoozy-wut's-its." In the end he did reluctantly go up a bit on the price.

When all the coin was tallied they had more than enough to pay the smiths to mend Ashura's damaged leathers and purchase a chainmail shirt. With a little work one of the armorers found a way to comfortably fit the shirt over the studded leather tunic.

They offered to purchase sturdier armor for Imoen too but she shook her head and said she was fine with her black leathers. "It's comfy enough to move in," she said. "Don't want anything heavier."

Ashura eyed a display case full of fine enchanted weapons, but even the cheapest magical short-sword was well beyond what they could afford. She settled for selling her misshapen goblin weapon and purchasing two new swords. Thunderhammer gave a preemptive apology for the quality of the metal. "Just about everything 'tween the Cloudpeaks and Baldur's Gate now comes from that blasted mine in Nashkel," he said. "I wish I could get shipments from somewhere else, but those damned bandits…"

Very reassuring.

At least Ashura left Thunderhammer's with fresh coin in her pouch and arms at her hip. She had also enjoyed a long hot bath the night before and slept soundly.

The war-party met up outside the Jovial Juggler half a bell later and set out along the southern road. The packed dirt and gravel that comprised the town's streets was soon replaced by raised cobblestones. Once again they were walking one of the ancient highways built by the Shoon Imperium during one wave of conquest or another and maintained by countless kingdoms and baronies since.

For a time the road ran straight, passing through flowering meadows and light stands of trees and brush. The party began to relax as they marched under the warm Mirtul sun. Birdsong rang from every tree, occasionally broken by the scream of an eagle high overhead. Meadows became rolling hills, the trees grew taller, and the road began to wind.

 

* * *

A little over an hour into their journey the group turned a bend in the path and came to a sudden halt. A large portion of the cobblestones ahead were smeared with blood. Black and red and freshly pooled. Whatever had died lay between two bulky figures that knelt in the middle of the road. Besides a little cloth tied at their loins the figures were naked, inhumanly muscular, and as they rose and turned it became clear that they were male. Blood covered their arms to the elbow and caked their wide bestial faces; noses flat and piggish, the hint of tusks at their lips.

One of the creatures held something up in his hand: a pale, severed arm from something human or humanoid. He seemed to leer at Ashura and Khalid as he held the arm above his mouth and let the blood flow to his lips.

Standing straight both creatures were nearly seven feet tall. Lesser ogres, Ashura realized, remembering a picture she had seen in an old bestiary. Sometimes called ogrillons. While the leering creature gulped down the blood the other let out an ear-splitting howl and charged, bare feet stomping on the stones. He was unarmed but fearless, his broad arms taking the lead, open hands shooting towards Ashura, ready to grip and pull and crush.

As her swords left their sheaths Ashura dashed forward to meet the creature. She ducked at the last moment and slid under the grasping hands, drawing her sword across the ogrillon's belly. His guts came spilling out as she passed, and in a sudden panic the beast tried to catch the slick ropes of intestine and push them back in.

Khalid finished the creature off with a quick slash to the neck as Ashura reached the second ogrillon. She slashed out but he managed to bat her swords away with the severed arm. He pivoted as he wielded the arm like a club and punched with his free hand. Ashura had been trying to bring her second sword up and stab at the ogrillon's armpit but the punch to her jaw threw her off. Her sword just grazed the beast as she fell backwards and hit the cobblestones.

Luckily Khalid was there before the ogre could deliver another blow and the tip of his sword struck true, going under the creature's ribcage and right to its heart. The beast howled in agony for a moment before slumping against Khalid, who nearly fell over from the weight.

Ashura launched herself back up and glanced around but there seemed to have been nothing beyond the pair of lesser ogres. It was over.

As she rubbed her aching jaw Ashura watched the others examine the area. Judging from the proportions of what was left of him the ogrillon's victim seemed to be a halfling man. A sack that lay on the stones beside his lower half was full of rolled up letters sealed by wax and marked "Beregost." Apparently the poor fellow was a courier. Having no desire to trek several miles back up the road to deliver mail they left the bag where they found it and continued south.

Khalid kept pace with Ashura at the head of their little formation, and after a time Ashura broke the silence. "How come your sword never breaks?" she asked.

"It's m-magical," he explained. "A m-minor enchantment but it helps."

"Hope I can find myself a magic weapon one of these days," Ashura said. They fell into silence for a quarter mile or so.

"You s-sure charge in head first," Khalid noted, making conversation.

"'In battle always be in motion and let your momentum carry you through to the end,'" Ashura recited. "'To stop is to become a target. To hesitate is to die.'"

Khalid gave her a blank look.

"That's from the Manual on the Art of Combat by Davo Abraxus. It's an old Chondathan book. Has some good fencing techniques mixed in with the philosophy."

"D-did you truly learn to fight f-from books?" Khalid asked.

Ashura shook her head slightly. "I sparred with the guards in Candlekeep every chance I got. Combat manuals are great but you can't get the reflexes and calluses you need for real combat without practicing with someone. That's something they stress in a lot of the manuals, in fact."

Khalid chuckled. "Fair enough, b-but you might want to start wearing a h-helmet," he said, tapping his own. "For the n-next time you charge into an ogre's fist."

"That might be a good idea," Ashura admitted.

 

* * *

As the day progressed the path grew more and more winding and the companions found themselves walking around wide hills and boulders. When the morning air cleared the Cloudpeak Mountains came into sight, still far to the south. Nashkel was somewhere at the mountains' feet, in a fertile vale above the foothills. It would be two or three days journey to get up there by Jaheira's estimation.

They took each bend in the path with caution, hands resting on their weapons as their eyes constantly scanned the trees and hills. Their caution was rewarded when they stepped around a moss-topped boulder and found themselves a few paces from a pair of lightly armored creatures with bat-like features and orange skin.

Hobgoblins.

The man-sized goblins shot to their feet, scattering bone fragments from some game they had been playing. One of the hobgoblins brought his hand to his lips and gave a loud whistle while the other hefted a sword and shield.

Side by side Ashura and Khalid drew their weapons and charged. With a metallic clang Khalid bashed his shield against the lead hobgoblin's. The blow sent the creature stumbling back a step and Ashura sped up, dancing around the reeling goblin as she tried to flank him.

The hobgoblin slashed at her while he blocked a blow from Khalid with his shield but Ashura managed to avoid the clumsy attack and close the distance. Her sword easily stabbed through the creature's crude leather armor and sank deep into his back.

Raising her offhand weapon in time Ashura managed to block a sword-blow from the second goblin and slide her weapon along his in a riposte that sent him hopping back. She yanked her main sword free and whirled to engage the second hobgoblin fully but before she could attack again one of Imoen's arrows whistled by and sank into her opponent's neck. The goblin grasped at the offending arrow, letting out a frantic croak before Ashura finished him off with a stab to the chest.

Ahead at the tree line branches were cracking and leaves were crunching. A breath later more hobgoblins broke through the trees, swords at the ready and backed by bowmen. There were at least eight of them, a full war-party. The first two had merely been a picket.

The bat-faced creatures formed up three by two, shoulder to shoulder in an abbreviated military formation. Their shields locked as the two bowmen knocked arrows. Each wore metal spikes that resembled horns on their helmets and uniform boiled-leather armor.

Over the grunts of the beast-men and the stomping of their boots came Xzar's melodic voice. He sang in a strange tongue, his voice carrying high and far. There was a crackle on the cobblestones in the center of the hobgoblin unit as wispy tendrils of golden energy slithered up and out, wrapping around the legs of each creature before abruptly vanishing.

A collective shiver seemed to run through everything before Ashura's eyes. The military discipline of the hobgoblin unit wavered as the beast-men glanced around nervously, then shattered as they began to panic. Some screamed and chopped at the air. Others shook uncontrollably and dropped to their knees, hiding their faces and cowering. A few simply tossed their weapons to the earth, turned around and ran.

Montaron zipped past Ashura's legs. "Come on you fools," he shouted without turning. "We've gotta' take advantage before the spell wears off."

Ashura nodded and rushed in beside Montaron. The halfling found a kneeling hobgoblin and grabbed him by a horn, yanking his head back and stabbing him through the throat. As the goblin coughed its last Ashura caught up with a fleeing creature and snatched him by the shoulder as she ran him through from behind, then turned and used her second sword to gut a cowering hobgoblin nearby.

By then Jaheira had joined them. She snatched the helmet off one of the cowering creature's heads and as he stuttered out a terrified plea for mercy she brought her club down, braining him in a few strokes. She waded over to another kneeling hobgoblin, bent down and in a lightning-quick motion gripped his chin and helmet and twisted hard. With a sickening crack the creature's neck broke.

There was a hobgoblin crawling blindly away from the slaughter, roughly between Imoen and Ashura. Imoen had an arrow knocked and trained on him, but she hesitated. Ashura looked at her friend questioningly and Imoen gave her an uncertain, pained look. Ashura shrugged and began stalking towards the hobgoblin but before she reached it the arrow flew. The creature's head snapped back as the arrow sank into his right eye. Two heartbeats later the hobgoblin's head pitched forward and he shuddered for a moment before growing still.

No more hobgoblins were moving.

Khalid stood away from the slaughter, a distasteful look on his face. Xzar stood behind, arms crossed and wearing a satisfied grin.

By their estimate at least two of the hobgoblins had fled into the woods. Not knowing if there were more of the creatures out there the party quickly decided to file up and continue marching down the road, weapons at the ready and still dripping with blood.

Ashura gave the slaughter one backward glance as they marched. It was said that even the most novice priests could cast a long lasting spell that would protect from magical fear. Right now she wished for some of that sort of protection regularly. What a horrible way to go: cowering and helpless and trapped by an emotion forced on you by someone else. At least she knew Xzar would never throw such a spell at her.

An hour passed with no sign of ambush, goblin or otherwise. Then another. By then the weapons were clean and back in their sheaths, but the group kept alert. The day passed from there without incident, and as the sun began to disappear behind the hills they started searching for a suitable campsite.

They settled on a large boulder a little off from the road. It was smooth and round with a high enough lip to provide a bit of shelter from rain and wind. There was a stream through the trees nearby where they refilled their waterskins and washed their faces before searching for dry rocks and wood for a firepit. Montaron had disappeared when they began to build the campsite, but as the first embers began to glow and the shadows lengthened he reappeared carrying the bodies of two squirrels. He showed Ashura how to skin and clean them and soon they had the rodents skewered and roasting over the flames.

The meat was a bit tough but it made for a better eveningfeast than the dried nuts and grains they carried. "Hobgoblins and ogres all in one day," Imoen murmured as she stared into the flames.

"Wild places are always full of wild things," Jaheira said. "It is the way of the world."

"Bah," Montaron muttered. "Least it was the little kind of ogre. Big ones'r far nastier. You'd think with all the bulk they'd be slow 'n lumbering but they can move _fast_ when they wanna."

"That's a pleasant thought," Imoen said.

"Just bein' an optimist," Montaron said with a shrug. "As long as the ogres stay pint-sized and the goblins don't get bigger than a hob everything's peachy. Could be a lot worse. The goblins could have been bugbears. Big, nasty cousins of the hob."

"Please don't give the gods any ideas," Imoen protested.

"Or it could have been trolls. Or fire-newts. Or-"

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" Imoen covered her ears, giggling a little.

Once they finished their meals Ashura was given first watch, instructed by Jaheira to wake her when the moon reached the edge of The Horn constellation. Ashura nodded, putting away the stone she had been using to sharpen her blades and finding a suitable place to stand guard as the rest settled in for the night.

 

* * *

The next day on the road was uneventful, if a bit tense. The path continually wound up and up into the foothills, and they turned each bend ready for battle, only to be met with the sound of birdsong and rustling trees. Always the Cloudpeaks loomed over them. White and gray wisps clung to their slopes, thick in the morning and dissipating as the day progressed, no doubt where the mountains' namesake came from.

When the path grew straighter for a time Ashura let Khalid take the lead and drifted back a few paces, marching beside Jaheira. "You never told me how you and Khalid met Gorion," Ashura said.

"No I did not," Jaheira stated plainly.

Ashura let out a groan and was surprised to hear a hearty chuckle from Jaheira. A moment later the half-elven woman began to tell the story of a time when she and Khalid had been "brazen youths" on a mission to shut down a ring of slavers based out of Iriaebor. The pair had discovered that a corrupt noble named Ployer was using his lands and roads to smuggle slave caravans bound for Westgate, where the humanoid cargo could be shipped anywhere across the Sea of Fallen Stars.

"Exposing Baron Ployer to the authorities was easy enough," Jaheira said "but we soon found out that the person behind the slavers in the region was a powerful Thayvian mage. She abducted and interrogated several locals who had helped us uncover the slaver ring. We tracked them and found her base of operations but rescuing them was too much for Khalid and I.

"So we sent a message asking for reinforcements and thankfully Gorion was in the area. He had grey hair even back then, and he was an experienced mage. So he took the lead on our little assault on the Red Wizard's layer." She chuckled. "We stood by, helpless, as he engaged the Red Mage herself in a wizard's duel. Quite a sight to behold."

"How does that work exactly?" Ashura asked.

"It can go many ways depending on the spells the mages favor. But usually both mages throw up an onion of magical defenses and illusions, then work to peel away the enemy's defenses first. It's all rather colorful. Mages tend to be frail under all that magic though. Once Gorion had dispelled the Red Mage's protections he killed her with a single spell."

"Hm," Ashura mused. "Hard to think someone like that could be cut down by one guy in spiky armor."

"Yes." Jaheira frowned. "Perhaps the man who killed Gorion was some sort of trained wizard-slayer, capable of shrugging off spells and cutting through magical protections with his sword. I have heard of such things."

"Huh," Ashura said, pondering. "I didn't have the best vantage, but father's magic didn't seem to have much of an effect on the guy." She was silent for a moment. "Well, I doubt he'll be able to shrug off a sword through the eye."

Jaheira shook her head slightly. "I understand wanting revenge, for I want it as well, but please be cautious child. This is obviously a dangerous man. Charging him the way you charge hobgoblins will just get you skewered on his sword."

"Pfft. I'm getting the 'reckless youth' speech?"

"Yes. I should know, I was a reckless youth once, and thankfully Gorion took me under his wing after our battle with the slavers. I suspect he was thinking of retiring at the time, and felt obliged to pass down some of the wisdom he had acquired to the young. Over the next couple of years we went on several missions together. The last one…" She paused, her frown deepening.

Ashura gave her an inquisitive look.

After a time the druidess responded with a shrug. "The last mission was an assault on a temple of Bhaal. Grim business that. They were sacrificing children."

It felt like there was more to the story but Jaheira was silent. After a time Ashura asked: "Bhaal? So this was before the Time of Troubles?"

"Shortly before, yes," Jaheira replied. She was not forthcoming with anything more. Ashura thought about asking who had sent them on all of these "missions" but was certain that was as off-limits as the story of what happened in the temple. Maybe Jaheira would open up with time. For now they just walked on in silence.

 

* * *

After long days of climbing the steep road the group was happy when they crested a hill and came upon the vale. Open fields and meadows lay before them now, forest clinging to the hills at the edge. Here and there among the fields they saw simple hovels and outbuildings.

The town of Nashkel had a very different character than Beregost. Instead of a tight cluster of tall, sturdy buildings the town seemed to be haphazardly strewn across the open fields. Farms, cottages and little homesteads dotted the landscape along dirt paths that spanned out from the Tradeway. The one place where buildings stood in any sort of order was a stretch of the highway that began at a well kept stone bridge crossing a small river. A tall stone temple stood over the rest of the village, with a steeped roof, four minarets and a massive symbol depicting the gauntlet-and-eye of Helm above the double doors.

The street was crowded with laborers pushing handcarts and loading wagons, as well as a number of soldiers that stood at post in front of each building or marched in small formations along the street or the dusty side roads. They were armored in scalemail and wore the distinct, high domed helmets of Amnish troops that glinted in the setting sun.

As the party approached the bridge one of the patrols broke off and marched towards them. Jaheira tilted her head towards Ashura and Imoen. "As you can see this town is heavily garrisoned," she stated. "It may not appear so but this is a place of great strategic importance. It is the gateway through the Cloudpeaks between Amn and the north."

A dour Amnish soldier with an elaborate beard and a scar on his cheek stepped forward out of the ranks of the patrol. "Identify yourselves," he barked.

Xzar and Jaheira stepped forward simultaneously. They glanced at each other before Xzar deferred to the half-elf with a little bow. "We are here to investigate the troubles in your mine," Jaheira said. "Mayor Ghastkill is expecting us."

"Hm," the soldier huffed and shook his head. "Expecting these little girls, you spindly elflings, that fop or that half-man to do what contingents of Amnish soldiers can't? Nothing stupider than a call for 'adventurers' if you ask me. But the Mayor did put out the call so I 'spose you can take it up with him."

Jaheira gave a curt bow. "I thank you then."

"If you ask me the problem with the iron is a curse from the gods," the soldier continued. "Just got to figure out the right god and appease 'em."

"We didn't ask you," Montaron snarled.

The soldier shrugged slightly. "Just trying to help. You're not the first adventurer types to come investigating. Near a tenday back there were two elves. Real serious types, said they came from Everska to solve the iron problem. One of 'em even had a moonblade. They went down into the mine and we haven't heard from them since."

"Just tell us where Barrun is," Jaheira demanded.

The soldier pointed down the road with his thumb. "This time o'day he's likely in the temple. Probably praying to the wrong god, like I said."

"Thank you then." At that Jaheira began to march down the street and the group fell in behind her.

The mayor was leaving the temple as they approached; flanked by several well dressed men. He was a lean, strong looking youth with the deep tan of an outdoorsman. He waved at the group as soon as he saw them and swiftly approached.

"Ah, the adventuring type," he said by way of greeting. "Would recognize them anywhere. You must be Khalid and Jaheira," he inclined his head. "And Xzar right? Glad you've decided to team up. Whatever is down there in the mines…well."

"We were told of the elves that went searching before us," Jaheira stated. "And we have not 'teamed up' as you say. We were simply traveling together."

"That's about the same thing," Montaron said with a shrug.

"Do as you wish," Barrun said, "The mine is a few miles to the southeast. I can send a soldier to guide you."

Imoen spoke up: "One of your soldiers seemed to think the problem with the iron was a curse from the gods and there's nothing we can do."

Barrun chuckled. "There's a lot of talk like that. Trust me, whatever's plaguing the mine is more substantial than a curse. We've lost a lot of miners recently, and even a few guards. Dead or disappeared."

"How were these men killed?" Jaheira asked.

"The bodies we found had arrows or arrow wounds. Most likely culprit would be a tribe of goblins, but whatever they are they've been damn illusive."

"Then before we launch a goblin hunt it would be most wise to rest up," Xzar interjected. "Maybe purchase some goblin hunting equipment." He frowned. "No idea what that is."

The mayor nodded. "I understand. This is an urgent matter though. Hope you can get on it as soon as possible."

"Tomorrow," Jaheira stated firmly.

"Good. Well, the inn is back up the road by the river. With the roads backed up it's pretty full, but there's no shortage of farmers renting out barns and haylofts. The general store's next to the inn. The big building."

They backtracked and after a visit to the shops they found the inn easily enough. In addition to being the only inn in town the place was a single story tall and a bit drab. The floor and ceiling were rough-cut and worn, the walls bare and painted a simple white. No Jovial Jugglar, certainly. Farmers and off duty soldiers leaned against a long bar and the tables were mostly full.

Thankfully there were two rooms left, small and sparse with a single bed each. After placing their packs in the rooms and locking the doors the group made their way back to the taproom and settled in at a large round table. Most of the group let out a collective sigh as they finally rested their feet. It had been a long journey, hobgoblins and ogres and deep woods and all.

After a meal and a few rounds of bitter black ale even Jaheira was relaxing a little, though she went back to her usual glares when Imoen tried to get her to join in on a bawdy drinking song. To Ashura's surprise Khalid did know the words, his stutter gone as he closed his eyes and sang. Xzar joined in on the next song, but he seemed to be making up his own lyrics. Something about dragons and rabbits. Imoen pitched her voice louder, trying to drown him out.

By then farmers at nearby tables had started singing as well, swaying to the rhythm and tapping on the tabletops. Then somewhere around the third chorus the song began to die away and a hush fell over the room. Ashura followed the eyes of the rest of the crowd to the back of the inn.

An armored woman had sauntered into the common room. A crested steel helmet sat on her head, a few strands of honey-blonde hair spilling out, and her splintmail armor clinked lightly in the silence. A brown grasping bear's claw was painted across the interlocking plates at her chest. It was the symbol of the Beastlord, marking her as a huntress of Malar. A green cloak hung from her shoulders and her feet were clad in fine fur boots.

The eyes of the huntress focused directly on Ashura as she strolled into the room. The woman gave the group a haughty smile. "Aw, I'm terribly sorry to interrupt your song," she cooed.

"What are-" Jaheira began but was cut short as the huntress whipped her left hand out from under her cloak and barked out something in a strange, guttural language. Translucent green vines burst from the floor and the very air; ghostly looking but solid enough to wrap around the waists and wrists and ankles of everyone at the table save Ashura. Chair legs screeched against the floor as they twisted and struggled with the ethereal force.

Ashura shot to her feet and drew her swords. She vaulted onto the table, raising her weapons to strike down at the huntress. As she did the other woman waved her right hand and with a crackle a hammer made of blue energy appeared in her fist. Before Ashura could strike the huntress turned and swung the hammer into her gut, bending her forward. As Ashura bent she felt the hammer slide away and then fly up, striking her in the face and sending her flying. A wave of pain went through her body as she hit the rough wooden floor.

Jaheira was shouting. "You think these vines can hold a servant of Sylvanis?" she bellowed. Fighting a sharp ache in her stomach Ashur managed to sit up then try to wobble to her feet. As she did she saw the ethereal vines that gripped Jaheira snap and vanish.

As the druidess stood and drew her war club the huntress waved her free hand and shouted something that was less a word and more a bestial grunt. A corona of golden energy flashed around Jaheira and she stood still, muscles obviously straining against the magic. "I've more than one way to hold you, bitch," the huntress snarled.

Ashura shifted to a dueling stance, feet dancing. She cringed as her body protested and her nose stung. Blood was dripping down onto her upper lip.

The huntress shook her head. "No, no, no," she said. "You are my prey tonight. And I will have my hunt. No fighting. You must _flee_."

The last word hit Ashura like something solid and she found her body acting all on its own. She pivoted and faced the door, and then her legs were moving, sprinting across the room. The door swung open and she found herself fleeing across the road and into the night.

She was a prisoner in her own body, the struggles of her mind unfelt by her pumping legs and arms as she ran. Mud sucked at Ashura's boots as she reached the bank of the river and then stomped forward into the water. Now she was wading, each step nightmare-slow. The water came up to her waist then grew lower as she climbed the opposite bank. No way to know where the huntress was; her head simply would not obey the order to turn and look.

Up the bank Ashura went, panting and climbing into a meadow of tall grass. Somewhere behind she could hear the clink of the huntress' armor. She ran through the grass, the field lit clearly by the full moon. Clink. Clink. The sound of the armor. Getting closer.

Now she could hear the crackle of that blasted magic hammer cutting through the air. Somewhere behind. Somewhere close. The blow would come any moment now. Solid and final, to the back of her head.

_No!_

Rage welled up, a primal scream struggling with the paralysis of her muscles. Spasms wracked her limbs. Her body shook, then she whirled, swords slicing through air as she fell into a crouch.

Relief! She could move.

The huntress was right there, hammer high in the air and ready to smash something. Ashura managed to cross her swords and catch the weapon's handle on them as the huntress swung down. She couldn't stop the hammer but she redirected it to the right and sent it smashing into the dirt instead of her skull. At the same time Ashura lashed out with her left-hand sword.

The blade dented a few plates at the woman's torso but did little else. Both combatants hopped back a few steps, regrouping. The huntress's teeth gleamed in the ghostly light cast by her hammer. "You do the job of the prey poorly," she noted through her grin. As she spoke her free hand glowed, a ball of golden energy forming at her palm. "If you will not be run down then you will be _trapped_." Her hand shot forward.

Ashura's response was an inhuman howl of rage as she charged. She felt the golden tendrils of the spell shoot from the woman's hand. They searched her mind and body for purchase. She gave them none. There was only fury. There was only forward.

The eyes of the huntress went wide with shock. She raised her hammer to block but Ashura's slash pushed the weapon aside. Ashura's right-hand sword stabbed at her opponent's armpit and sunk deep into flesh were no armor protected. She dropped her left sword and gripped her opponent's wrist, holding the hammer away as they grappled.

A spasm ran through the huntress's body and her legs buckled. Ashura yanked the sword free and the other woman sank to her knees. The hammer crackled and disappeared as the huntress involuntarily let it go. Her face was clinched in pain.

Another war cry came from Ashura's lips as she pivoted and brought her sword back. She swung with all her strength and the huntress's head flew into the air, twin geysers of blood briefly pumping from the stump of her neck before her body slumped to the grass.

Her fury spent, Ashura dropped to her knees. She panted and doubled over. An assassin at every stop so far. She was really starting to hate inns.

Her companions found her there a few moments later. Imoen rushed to her first, wrapping her arms around Ashura's shoulders. "Oh Shura!" Imoen squealed. "I thought…I was so worried…"

Jaheira managed to peel Imoen away and examine Ashura's injuries. The warm and familiar glow of healing magic mended Ashura's bent and bleeding nose and the blow to her abdomen hadn't broken any ribs. A search of the body led them to believe that the crested helmet was enchanted in some way, but the huntress had little else of value on her. And of course she carried another bounty notice. The price on Ashura's head was still three-hundred-and-fifty gold.

Ashura was worried that the innkeep would throw them out, but he was actually apologetic, telling them that he had suspected the Malarite would be trouble. There was a hot bath waiting in a large wooden tub when they got to their room, and Ashura was grateful to wash the blood off when her turn came around.


	5. Dark as a Dungeon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we learn just how awesome having infravision is

 

_"Better a hoard of raging bugbears than a clever kobold pack."_ –Ribald Barterman _, Old Ribald's Guide to Dungeoneering_

 

* * *

Gorion was marching her through a dark forest, past clinging brambles and over rotting logs. Her short little legs could barely keep up, and the looming figure of her father was drifting further and further away with every branch that slapped her face or root that tripped her foot. Soon Gorion's silhouette was at the edge of her vision and she panicked and ran.

When she turned the corner around a tree her father was gone entirely. She kept running, dodging past trees and ducking under the wicked claws of branches that seemed to be trying to grasp her; to pluck and pull her up into the darkness.

She broke through the trees and found herself on a wide path. Ahead it branched in many directions, some leading into mist, others into darkness, and down some she thought she saw thick black smoke. As she stepped forward the central path became clear. It was wide and straight; an orderly tunnel that cut through the trees and branches.

Perhaps she walked towards that wide, inviting path, or perhaps she was pulled. Either way the pull was definite and powerful a few steps later. Gravity shifted and the open path seemed to slope now. Sharply. Then iIt was not a forest path at all but a mine-shaft and she was sliding. Sliding and then falling into the earth.

Far far below the shape of a leering skull was etched into the ground. It came to life as flames burst from the floor, illuminating its outline. Somewhere in the darkness a deep booming voice laughed as she fell.

With a gasp Ashura started awake and sat up in bed. There was a strange tingling in her left hand, and to her shock when she looked down her palm was glowing with a faint blue-white light. She felt bodies stirring beside her, Imoen at her right and Jaheira at her left. With an instinctive act of will she forced the glow to subside.

"Is something wrong child?" Jaheira asked sleepily.

"Bad dream," Ashura replied as she lay back down. "Sorry." Within moments Jaheira's breathing was gentle and even again. Khalid, who lay past Jaheira on the far end of the bed, never stirred. The wide single bed had forced them to pack in rather snuggly, and Ashura was keenly aware that her movements would disturb the others.

Once again she lay there for a long time, the nightmare playing again and again in her mind, unable to sleep. That glowing skull with its halo of tears was still there whenever she closed her eyes. Perhaps she drifted off a few times before dawn finally came and the four companions began to rise and prepare for the day. It was enough to half-convince herself that the glow in the palm of her hand had just been a dream as well.

As they got dressed and assembled their gear Ashura noticed that Jaheira was putting on something different than her usual padded leather. After slipping a simple green tunic over her head the druidess pulled a heavy looking piece of metal armor on and began to adjust what must have been a dozen straps. The armor consisted of a coat of interlocking metal splints with rounded shoulder-plates and a series of metal-on-leather straps that covered her loins. Khalid helped tighten the armor at the back as Jaheira put a simple steel helmet with a nose-guard on her head and strapped it to her chin. Finally she strapped a heavy wood and metal kite shield to her back, a replacement for the smaller shield she had been carrying.

"You bought that at the smithy?" Ashura asked.

Jaheira nodded. "Who knows what we will face down in the mine. I thought I'd be prepared. And you should as well." With that Jaheira pulled something out of her pack and handed it to Ashura. It was a helmet, of finder make than Jaheira's and topped with a red plume.

"Uh, this was the huntress' right?" Ashura asked.

"Aye," Jaheira said. "Xzar tested the enchantment last night and I believe it would work best for you. Put it on."

Ashura gave her a dubious look and then shrugged, placing the helmet on her head. There was no noticeable effect.

Jaheira walked to the room's single window and drew the curtains tight. The light noticeably dimmed and Ashura began to see a faint red glow emanating from the half-elf's body. Glancing around she saw the same sort of glow coming from Imoen and Khalid. It was a wavering light that roughly matched her companion's silhouettes.

"Look at the floor," Jaheira instructed. Looking down Ashura noticed faint bits of red light crisscrossing the room. They were roughly the size and shape of footprints.

Ashura gasped. "Wow. Is this…this is infravision isn't it?"

"Exactly," Jaheira replied. "With the helmet you can see heat the way Khalid and I can. Very useful in the dark."

"Aww," Imoen complained. "And I'll be blind as a bat."

"You can have the helmet if you really want," Ashura offered. "But I bet it would cramp your style. You ever train to aim a bow with a helmet on?"

"Nope," Imoen said. "Not to mention it's hard to sneak around when your head's clanging against stuff. But I call dibs on the next darkvision ring or necklace we come across!"

"Deal."

 

* * *

Their guide to the Nashkel mines was an energetic female soldier who led them on the long trek up into the mountains with a spry step. She explained that the mine was built high in the rocky feet of the slopes, a good eight miles from the green plains where Nashkel's farms prospered. The path grew steeper and steeper beneath the green silhouettes of the Cloudpeak Mountains which rose before them into a dull grey sky. Thick clouds clung to the mountains, threatening rain that never quite materialized.

As they climbed the guide explained that the mine was relatively new, dug roughly thirty years ago. "It wasn't built on any old ruins or natural caverns," she said. "You always hear about monsters crawling out of those, but it's odd that something would be sweeping in and haunting our little mine."

The trees thinned out and then disappeared completely as they came to a craggy plateau that had been clear-cut long ago. Ahead were several crude wooden buildings. The guide told them that they were barracks for the miners and guards along with several supply sheds and other outbuildings. The mine itself was a quarried-out hole in the earth several hundred feet wide.

A wooden stairway led into the pit and the lone entrance into the ground was at the far end of the quarry. Wooden struts propped the earthen doorway up and a series of rail tracks led through the middle. Mining carts, both empty and full, sat upon the rails here and there. The gravel floor of the pit crunched beneath their boots as the party made its way across.

Three heavily armored Amnish soldiers guarded the entrance of the tunnel, standing behind a tall, gruff looking man with sandy blonde hair and well-made work clothes. The man scowled at the group as they approached and the guide rushed ahead. "These are the adventurers the mayor called for," the soldier explained.

The man continued to scowl. "Well," he spat, "if it's Berrun's orders I won't stand in the way, but they'd better behave themselves down there in my mine. I won't tolerate any smashing of my equipment or abusing of my men."

Jaheira raised a placating hand. "Understood," she said. "We are merely here to investigate."

"Hmph. Well investigate gently and be out as quick as ya can," the supervisor said before stomping off.

The guards at the entrance silently parted, and after bidding goodbye to their guide the party walked under the struts and into the darkness. A few paces in the tunnel began to descend down wood-braced steps. Soon the sunlight was gone, replaced by the dancing flicker of regularly placed torches.

They were startled as Xzar let out a giddy sounding, childlike sigh. "Oh," he sang. "I'm never quite so comfortable as when I'm at least six feet under."

Ashura giggled and the rest gave Xzar uncomfortable looks. He just kept trudging forward, smiling at the ceiling. Today his face was painted with a pattern that resembled a skull.

Soon the tunnel opened up into a wider cavern where the mining rails split out in many directions and carts sat idle, a few piled high with raw ore, most empty. The constant tink-tink of picks striking stone echoed through the tunnels and spindly miners in short, rough-spun pants and shirts rested by the carts. Xzar approached one of the men and casually asked where to find the "monsters."

The haggard old miner just chuckled.

"We are investigating whatever is tainting the iron," Jaheira explained, "and need to know the layout of the mine."

The miner nodded and explained that most of the tunnels eventually dead-ended or connected to each other in a loop. Only the far southeast tunnel spiraled down to the lower level, which the miner described as a less orderly honeycomb of crisscrossing and downward-sloping paths.

Before descending they decided to methodically explore each tunnel on the upper level. The guards and miners that they met told them a little about the creatures that haunted the mine, saying that a few men had seen red eyes glowing in the dark. Growing up in Candlekeep Imoen and Ashura had both read their share of bestiaries, but eyes glowing red in the dark could belong to a large number of different creatures, from fearsome spined devils down to lowly goblins.

Another clue came when they found a series of unattended ore carts around a lonely bend of the track. Khalid and Jaheira both squatted and Ashura followed. With the vision granted by her helmet she could see pairs of faint red tracks glowing beside the carts. They were small and strangely shaped with three pointy, elongated toes.

As the dim glow of the heat-tracks began to fade Jaheira tugged at Ashura's arm and the two began to follow one of the sets. They quickened their pace and Jaheira gestured for the rest to fall in behind her. Soon they were jogging along, eyes fixed on the glowing markers. Imoen made a confused sound but Jaheira shushed her with a rough hand-gesture. The glow of the trail seemed to grow brighter and brighter and-

-Then it abruptly vanished. They searched a bit, confused. Was there a crack in the wall somewhere? How had the creature slipped away?

The answer came with a twang and the whistle of an arrow. It struck Khalid's helmet with a loud clang. He whirled towards the source of the attack, his shield rising just in time to block a second shot. The arrows were coming from ahead and above, and looking up Ashura saw the red glow of two small forms sitting on top of a wooden strut that did not quite reach the ceiling of the mine.

Imoen had an arrow knocked and a confused look on her face. "They're up there!" Ashura shouted and pointed. Imoen tilted her bow and fired at the strut but the arrow struck the roof of the mine, missing entirely.

With her sling whirling above her head Jaheira took aim and hurled a stone. One of the creatures let out a high-pitched yelp and its small body fell to the floor. There was another plink and an arrow struck Jaheira's chest. The blow made her hop back but the arrow bounced off her armor.

The second little creature hopped down to the floor of the mine. The one that had fallen to the floor somehow managed to rise to its feet and together they turned and fled, jumping high in the air with each stride.

The fresh heat-tracks of the creatures led back into the main chamber of the mine and disappeared in the crisscrossing tracks of a group of miners or a patrol of soldiers that had recently passed through. The two half-elves and Ashura searched for a time but soon the tracks faded and the trail went cold.

Ashura broke the silence. "What in the hells were those things anyway?" she asked.

"They looked like uh…little kangaroos," Imoen volunteered. "At least the way they hopped."

"Kanga-whats?" Ashura asked.

"Kangaroos. They're like deer but they stand up on their hind legs with these enormous feet and they can hop really far. I read about them in some book from Kara-Tur. They're from some island around there."

Ashura shook her head. "There was nothing deer-like about those things. Their heads looked kind of like crocodiles. Definitely reptilian."

Khalid spoke up, "K-kobolds. I think those w-were kobolds."

"Aye," Montaron concurred. "I'm pretty sure those were kobolds. Nasty, tricky little creatures. Best be on your guard."

One of the plates over Jaheira's right breast was bent a bit and there was a dent in Khalid's helmet, but they were fine otherwise. After a quick regrouping they cautiously entered the tunnel that led to the lower levels. The path sloped gradually and turned, going on for what seemed like ages before it opened into a wider chamber.

A scream echoed through the cavern, then another. From the darkness a stocky, shirtless man ran towards them. He dropped to his knees, breathless, in front of Ashura. "The…the demons," the man stammered.

"Where?" Ashura asked, peering into the darkness and whipping her swords from their scabbards.

"The yipping," the man panted, finding his feet. "Yipping demons…"

"Uh…" Ashura narrowed her eyes.

The man opened his mouth to explain but nothing besides a raspy choke came out. The sound was followed by a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. The man staggered and fell forward. There was a red-feathered arrow in the back of his neck and several down his body.

"Shit!" Ashura gasped as she ducked low. An arrow whistled over her head. There, ahead in the darkness, crouched two small forms glowing with heat. As they reached to knock more arrows she charged, clearing the ground between them before the bows could be drawn again.

The creatures did indeed yip shortly before she kicked one of them and slashed at the second. The slash sent the beast scurrying back and the kick knocked the other to the floor where she ran it through.

Turning from her kill Ashura saw at least five more of the scaly little creatures hopping out from crevices and hiding places between wooden braces. They were armed with short swords and intent on overwhelming her. A line from Thorin Avshar's combat manual "The Decisive Stroke" came to mind: "If you let them set the tempo of battle you have already lost."

So she refused to let the little lizards set the tempo. Charging. Slashing. Stabbing. Stomping. Always moving, driven by reflex and instinct, she pushed into the melee and through it. Scales, steel and blood whirled around her, all in a blur.

With a stomp to the throat and a crunch the fifth kobold shuddered and ceased moving. Ashura turned and looked around the cavern but all was still now. She caught her breath, wincing a bit. At some point Khalid had joined in beside her. His shield was dented and the blade of his bastard-sword was slick with blood.

Ashura's chainmail coat was torn in several places and she was bleeding from a couple of shallow slashes. That was fixed quickly enough with a healing prayer from Jaheira, and then they went to examining the dead reptiles.

The creatures did indeed resemble crocodiles, or at least their heads did. Their bodies had roughly the proportions of a halfling, though far skinnier, and since they gave off heat they were obviously warm-blooded. The old bestiaries said that kobolds were extremely distant cousins to dragons.

On the bodies were mismatched weapons, mostly short swords and bows, and simple roughspun tunics. Also several of the creatures carried green glass vials attached to their belts.

Imoen and Xzar both examined the strange liquid. "Hmm," Xzar hummed, turning the glass around and around in his hand as he sniffed the uncorked bottle. "There's definitely a hint of death here. Of rot and rust and…delicious impurities."

"You can uh, smell all that? Death?" Imoen asked. "I just smell something acidic and some heavy metals."

"Oh, anyone can smell death my dear. It is the most pungent and obvious scent of all. But the essence of corrosion; death distilled. That is a specialty of mine, and I recognize it well." He hummed to himself, putting the stopper back into the vial.

Imoen shook her head. "Regardless, I'd bet anything this is how those sneaky little lizards are messing up the ore."

"Yeah," Ashura grunted. "Definitely seems like some sort of sabotage operation."

They formed up again and crept further into the darkness. It was eerily silent now, and there was no sign of more miners. As they wound their way around a bend the silence was broken by the groan of a bow being pulled. Ashura tried to duck but winced as she felt the arrow strike her squarely in the chest. The chainmail did its job and deflected the arrowhead, though bits of the armor fell to the cave floor in the process. Two more arrows flew by her and she heard Khalid let out a pained gasp.

Ashura charged. In the dark ahead she could hear the little creatures panting as they fled before her. Little bastards were trying to hit and run now, wear them down. The corridor they were running down quickly opened up into a wider cavern. She could hear the rush of water all around, perhaps from some sort of underground river.

Her foot struck something and there was a loud creak to her right. Before she could react something heavy struck her in the side. The wind was knocked from her lungs and she was flung off her feet and into the air.

With a cold jolt she hit the surface of the underground river and nearly blacked out. Involuntarily she gasped and took in a lungful of water. Her arms flailed but the light above was dimming. She was sinking! Her armor was dragging her down.

Fighting back panic and the burning in her lungs Ashura tore at her belt. She managed to rip it away and quickly shrugged out of the chain shirt. The metal-studded leathers she wore beneath threatened to drag her down anyway but as she kicked and flailed the light above her grew.

Her arms broke the surface, and then her head came clear. She coughed and swung her arms, her hands slapping against the stone surface of the walkway. Eventually she found enough of a handhold to pull herself halfway out of the water and then crawl on hands and knees onto the stone.

Ashura coughed and coughed until she was retching up water and what remained of her breakfast. As she caught her breath she heard the earsplitting yelp of a dying kobold nearby. The sound startled her onto her feet. The creature fell face first onto the stone as Montaron twirled his blood-drenched sword casually. Apparently that was the last of the kobolds, at least for this ambush.

In addition to the dead kobolds there were human bodies lying all around them, miners it appeared from their dress. Red feathered arrows peppered most of the bodies and with her infravision Ashura saw that some of them still held a little heat. Freshly dead. Probably the group that miner who had screamed about yipping demons was from.

It took Ashura a few more moments to fully catch her breath. Imoen walked over and squatted beside her. She offered Ashura a wet sack, which she recognized a moment later. Her backpack. It was soaked but apparently Imoen had been able to pull it from the river. One of her swords lay on the walkway, but her belt, other sword and her scabbards were gone, along with the healing potion she had attached to it. And her chainmail shirt. _Damn_.

With a hoarse voice Ashura muttered, "Okay, trying to chase these bastards down is a really bad idea."

"Agreed," Jaheira said sternly. "We have to be cautious from here out. The deeper we go the more traps there will be. Montaron and Imoen, you'll need to take the lead. Try to stay low and retreat if you come under fire."

They both nodded grimly.

Ashura managed to find a second short sword that suited her among the dead kobolds. She stowed it and the other sword in her pack for now, though, and picked up a short bow and a quiver of arrows from another corpse. She had never been a good archer, but it seemed like a better weapon to carry at the ready for now.

With more than a little trepidation the group began to creep deeper into the earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those curious about Dungeons and Dragons-y things Ashura's a barbarian, though more in a "favoring a fast, lightly armored fighting style" sense than the "channeling Uthgardt animal spirits" sense. I'm also generally writing this story with 3.5 edition rules in mind (in which case Ashura has at least one level of fighter, since she's literate and has a bunch of duel weapon feats.)
> 
> I also wrote her with the chaotic neutral alignment in mind, though she leans quite a bit towards towards the evil side.


	6. Crucible Forged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein our heroines are tempered by fire, darkness, and steel

 

_"The hotter the flames the purer the ingot." –_ old dwarven proverb

 

* * *

"This definitely be the place," Montaron remarked as he traced a finger against the jagged stone opening. "It looks like all natural-type caverns past this point. Hot too." The gap was short and narrow. It would be a tight fit for the armored members of the group.

This seemed to be the spot (or one of the spots,) where the kobolds had broken through into the mining complex from a nearby series of natural caves. From the black and wavy nature of the stone walls within it seemed the cavern had been carved by magma.

"Well?" Jaheira asked, her eyes on Montaron.

"Well what?" the halfling barked back. "Looks like a prime place for an ambush. I ain't sticking me neck out first."

"Pfft," Imoen rolled her lips. "I'll do it." Before anyone could object she knelt and wriggled through the gap, staying low to the ground and close to the walls of the cave as she silently slipped out of view.

After a few unnerving moments of silence Imoen appeared again and gestured for them to move forward. One by one they slipped into the cave. On the other side they chose a tunnel more or less at random and began to creep forward.

Soon sweat was trickling from their brows as the heat that radiated from the walls and floor grew more and more intense. Ashura's sight was eventually blotted out by nothing but red and a heartbeat later her infravision went out the way it would in daylight.

For about thirty paces they made their way through the darkness, guided only by the tourches that Imoen and Khalid carried. Then they turned a corner and came upon a red light glowing in the distance. As they drew closer the ground seemed to rumble beneath them, and the sound soon became a mix of grinding and gurgling.

It became clear what the source of the sound was when the tunnel opened into a massive chamber several hundred feet above a hellish glowing light. A magma-flow. The path ahead of them spanned the chamber along what seemed to be a natural bridge, and there was a tunnel at the far end.

They slowed almost to a halt, inching along the ground with Montaron in the lead. There would be no swimming back to the surface if one of those log-traps caught someone here. Montaron had only gone a few paces across the bridge when he stopped fully, his gloved hands fiddling with something on the ground. With a careful slash of his dagger the halfling severed a tripwire and pushed it aside. He crept another three paces then stopped again, frowning as he examined a second hidden bit of rope.

The creak of a bow echoed off the cavern walls and Montaron immediately leapt to his feet and scrambled backwards. An arrow struck and clattered against the dusty ground where the halfling had knelt a breath before. Backing up Montaron cringed and ducked as something white-hot and crackling flew by his head. The burning arrow struck the ground a finger-width from the tip of Imoen's boot and sent her hopping backwards as sparks flew. She backed towards the tunnel and knocked an arrow.

Ashura crouched a few paces behind and knocked an arrow of her own. It was hard to tell but the little lizards seemed to have cover at the end of the bridge. Nothing in view for a few beats, then there was movement at the lip of the opening and she let the bowstring go. The arrow missed broadly but sent the kobold ducking back into cover.

At the other side of the opening a second kobold popped out and sent another burning arrow hissing through the air. Ashura cringed as sparks and embers struck her leg but she managed to knock an arrow and hold steady. The little reptile had ducked back behind the rocks but the other archer had popped back into view, and she aimed for his head.

Her arrow missed dramatically but the kobold's didn't. It struck Imoen in the thigh, causing her own arrow to shoot wildly. Imoen let out of a scream of pain and the leg that was stuck went wobbly.

Ashura rushed forward and slipped am arm around Imoen's waist, dragging her friend back a couple of paces and into the shelter of the nearby tunnel. The cave walls around were pretty smooth and unlike the kobold's spot it offered relatively little cover. More arrows whistled past them as Imoen and Montaron both huddled against the walls. Xzar gasped as an arrow flew past his face. Meanwhile Ashura took another wild shot with her bow that arched far short and plunged towards the magma.

Gritting her teeth she threw her bow down and snatched her swords from her pack. "Fuck this," she growled, then charged across the bridge, leaping over the tripwire that Montaron had left behind. Two paces farther and she felt something under her boot click.

No choice; she kept running. There was a rush of air behind her as three crossbow bolts whistled across the bridge, one missing her hip by a finger-length. She bent forward and dashed the remaining six paces to the far tunnel, coming face to face with a red-scaled kobold that was lifting a bow and aiming a burning arrow point-blank. A slash from Ashura's left-hand sword sent the bow and arrow flying from the creature's hands and a slash from the right cut the kobold down.

There was a stabbing pain in her back and Ashura whirled around, facing a kobold with dull yellow scales that held an empty bow. It tried to turn and flee but a slash sent it flying off its feet and another opened its throat. Every twist and motion of her body sent spikes of agony through her left side, but there was no time to dwell on that.

The darkness before her was full of glowing red eyes.

The little creatures all rushed her at once now. Daggers stabbed at her thighs, claws gripped at her armor, all trying to overwhelm her and bring her down. Ashura kicked and slashed and whirled in a tangle of blood and steel and scales. There were yips and yelps of pain and some of the small reptilian bodies went still or fell back.

There was another jolt of stabbing pain in her side, near the arrow wound. A knife maybe. Her feet faltered and her knees hit the stone. With a deep intake of breath she tried to push herself back up and felt a weight on her upper back as claws dug in. Before she could react her breath left her as something tightly constricted against her neck.

Ashura could feel the kobold brace itself on her back and pull, using a bowstring as a makeshift garrote. Her sword fell from her left hand as she grabbed at the cord and tried to pull. No relief. She grappled and pulled at the creature's claws but the pressure didn't change.

There was an intense heat at Ashura's cheeks and her lunges burned as she wobbled fully to her feet. She turned and slammed the creature on her back against the cave wall. It shuddered but kept its grip. She felt a wave of pain that threatened to make her pass out as the arrow in her back got pushed in and worried by the motion.

Heedless of the pain she bent forward and reared back again. There was a crunching sound that she hoped was a bone breaking in the kobold but the pressure at her neck didn't lift. The pain at her side was excruciating. She lurched forward, hobbling from the wall. There had to be a-

Her sword! She still held a sword in her right hand. Bringing the blade close to her face, she tried to steady her hand as she struggled with the creature on her back. The edge of the weapon brushed against her face and then rubbed against the bowstring. The kobold tried to twist harder on Ashura's back and she rolled with it, her sword sawing up and down against the rope.

The bowstring squeezed stubbornly for a few more terrifying heartbeats. All of Ashura's breath was spent; her chest on fire. Then the string began to fray. A ragged breath entered Ashura's lungs as it snapped. The kobold lost its balance and rolled off her back, a claw still clinging to her shoulder. She snatched at the creature and managed to grab it by the neck.

With a sudden burst of fury Ashura lifted the creature, turned and hurled it. The kobold's arms, legs and tail all flailed at once as it went flying past the lip of the cavern and out into the stifling air over the magma pit.

With that Ashura's legs gave out again and she stumbled backwards. She flopped against the wall and sank down as she gulped breath after ragged breath, her vision blurred by tears.

_No. Can't rest. Not now._ Ashura shook herself and wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. As her vision cleared she saw Khalid, Montaron and Jaheira standing in the cavern, their backs to her and their armor covered in blood. Tails and legs and arms were twitching as the last of the kobolds died.

Finding her fallen sword Ashura pushed herself unsteadily up and onto her feet. She kept herself braced against the wall as she continued to try and catch her breath. Imoen limped over through the archway, Xzar following close beside her.

"M-more!" Khalid shouted in alarm over the panting that echoed through the cavern. Ashura looked up in time to see the darkness again fill with glowing red eyes. How many of the little buggers where there?!

Jaheira and Khalid's shields locked as they faced the newcomers, and the kobolds fanned out. Over the crackle and roll of the great magma flow Ashura could hear Xzar humming close by. Despite the magma it suddenly felt like there was a chill in the air and an involuntary shiver ran down Ashura's spine.

Xzar stretched his spindly fingers out and trails of mist extended from their tips, sinking into the stone close to the row of dead kobolds. Sudden shudders went through three of the corpses, then with quick, jerking motions the little reptiles found their swords and daggers and slowly hobbled to their feet.

Order broke down in the column of glowing eyes on the far side of the room. They glanced around and looked at each other nervously; some backing away as three of their former companions lined up and began to trot towards them.

The living kobolds were still in shock when Jaheira and Khalid charged into their ranks, still shield to shield as they punched their way through the loose formation. Imoen sent an arrow flying and Ashura followed. She felt like she was dragging her body forward, sluggish from blood-loss, but when the kobold she faced squeaked and charged her with a sword swinging she had to react quickly. Their weapons locked.

The shock the undead kobolds caused did more damage than the three slow-moving creatures actually could. Xzar's new pets did manage to drag some of their former companions to the ground, clawing and stabbing, but the rest of the disorganized group fell to the swords, arrows and clubs of the living.

Somewhere in the melee Ashura had lost her left-hand weapon. Instead her hand was gripping the shoulder of a kobold, lifting it up and stabbing again and again until the creature was still and the forward motion and weight carried her to a far wall. When she reached it she leaned forward heavily and tried again to catch her breath. She slid down the wall a bit, leaving a trail of blood.

No more glowing eyes now. Even Xzar's undead creatures had slumped to the ground; either they were too damaged by the fight or the spell was spent. Hoarse breath followed breath. Still no more eyes appeared. No third wave. Thank Talos. Ashura slumped down further, all the way to the ground; limbs tangled with the dead kobold on her sword as she wavered in and out of consciousness.

 

* * *

"Shura! Shura! Can you hear me?" It was Imoen's voice.

Ashura managed a faint nod and her eyes fluttered a bit.

"This is gunna hurt a lot. Sorry. Then you need to drink this."

"Imoen, you're not making any sense," Ashura mumbled. She started to speak again, questions on her lips, but then there was yank and intense pain in her side. Turning her head back she let out a howl. "Ahh! Fuck! Loviatar's pimply assss that hurts!"

"Just shut up and drink this!" Imoen implored, pressing the lip of a glass bottle against Ashura's mouth. Trying to steady herself and her breathing Ashura gulped the liquid down. It was surprisingly sweet.

The stabbing pain at her side was replaced by an intense itch that made her shiver. She opened her eyes and blinked a few times, her hand clutching her side. It seemed like the arrow and stab wounds there had closed.

"Had to pull the arrowhead out and give you a healing potion," Imoen explained. "Jaheira said she used her last healing prayer on my leg. Sorry."

Ashura shook her head, beginning to collect herself and find her feet. _Woah! Still a bit unsteady._ "It's fine," she said. "Sorry to get chopped up like that."

"It's the way of battle lass," Montaron said. "Damn risky sometimes. Least there's a lot more of 'em dead than us." Ashura glanced around. Jaheira looked as haggard and tired as Ashura felt and Khalid's armor was pretty battered but they were all in one piece. And there seemed to be well over a dozen of the little reptile corpses on the ground. Wow.

 

* * *

About a hundred paces down a side passage they found a camp that the kobolds had been using. There was a crude wooden barricade (basically a sawhorse with some wooden shields attached,) at the narrowest point of the passage, then it opened up into a larger cave dominated by a pool that steamed and bubbled. No doubt it was heated by the magma below. There were beds of animal-hide and dried cave-moss spread out away from the pool, and a circle of stones surrounded the ashes of a firepit. A few barrels sat against a wall but a search revealed that they were empty. No kobolds seemed to remain and there was no sign of any back-passages unless they were under the water.

The party sat down among the beds. Ashura faced the tunnel and held her swords at the ready. "I'll need to rest to recover my spells," Jaheira stated. "This may be the best spot we could come upon."

"Unless they send patrols here regularly," Ashura grumbled. "But yeah. Sorry. We need all the spells we can get and this place seems defensible."

They settled in as best they could, Khalid fixing his eyes on the tunnel while Jaheira and Xzar spread their bedrolls out. Once it seemed safe Ashura pulled some of the linens out of her pack. Setting her helmet down she stood and then wriggled out of her armored tunic.

"Thinking of taking a dip?" Imoen asked. "The kobolds seem to have a nice little hotsprings here."

"Not a chance," Ashura said as she quickly wrapped some of the white cloth against her wounds and around her bare waist. "Bad enough I lost the chainmail, I'm _not_ letting these things catch me without armor." With the bandages tight she quickly pulled the tunic back on, tying it as best she could with a bit of rope. It didn't cinch nearly as well as her old belt had.

They supped a little on dried fruit and nuts and then Jaheira and Xzar went to bed. Since the main point of resting here was to let those two recover their magic it was up to the others to stand guard. "I suppose I can take first shift," Ashura whispered, "but how exactly do we time that?"

"J-just guard until you f-feel exhausted," Khalid said, smiling slightly. "Then come wake me."

The little barricade seemed a good place to stand guard so Ashura paced about there, her swords set in loops of her rope belt. The magma was far enough away that her infravision worked again, but there was nothing but a dull red glow before her eyes. The kobolds would hopefully appear a bit brighter then the background heat. Or maybe cooler. She wasn't that sure what the body heat of a kobold actually was. The books always emphasized the "distant cousins of dragons" bit but she was pretty sure none of these things were close to breathing fire.

It was hard to tell time but it seemed like exhaustion came sooner rather than later. Ashura tried to fight it with fidgeting, pacing and trying to remember all she could about kobold lore but eventually she found her head nodding and decided to go rouse Khalid and turn in. Despite the aches all over her body and the hard stone floor she passed out as soon as she had the bedroll wrapped around her.

 

* * *

"Alarm! Alarm!" Imoen's shouts sent Ashura lurching up and out of her sleeping-roll. As she slipped on her helmet and hefted her swords the smell of burning wood hit her nostrils. No doubt more of those damn fire arrows.

Her first thought was to check on Xzar. She found him a few paces away standing over his bedroll, glancing around with bleary eyes. "You're okay?" she asked him, and he nodded.

As Ashura smiled with relief she caught sight of something behind the mage. A faintly glowing form crouched at the far wall, crawling forward and holding a long dagger. There was another creature creeping behind it, then another. Ashura grabbed Xzar by the shoulders and pushed him back, interposing herself.

Realizing that they'd been spotted two of the kobolds gave up on stealth and charged her, each moving in a separate direction. As they did the third kobold finished climbing from a crack in the wall that even Montaron wouldn't have been able to fit through. The opening was in a spot that had been covered by barrels when they first found the camp.

_Of course_ the kobolds would have a secret backdoor. _Of course_ the party would have missed it.

The first two reptiles were at either side of Ashura now and they attacked at once. They each had a long knife, she had two swords. They had planned to overwhelm her. She had trained to fight this way.

Keeping the kobolds at either side Ashura rushed the one on her right and hacked at the creature's wrist as the distance closed in a flash. The little lizard yelped and dropped its knife. By then Ashura had passed the wounded kobold and turned, keeping its body between her and the other attacker. To seal the deal she drove her left-hand sword into the kobold's back and turned with the second creature, using the squirming body of its companion as a shield. A few feint's later and she drove her right sword through the second kobold's eye.

There was a crackle in the air as a beam of inky blackness flew past Ashura. She followed its trail and saw the blast strike a fourth kobold that had crawled through the crack and dragged a bow along with it. The bow clattered to the floor as the creature bent over, fighting for breath, limbs limp as noodles.

Ashura rushed the creature and took it down completely with a couple of slashes. The other kobold was lying on its back nearby, arms curled up and deathly thin like it had been struck with one of Xzar's life-draining spells. Ashura gave it a stomp to the neck to make sure it was dead.

Two more steps and she was at the crack in the wall. No glow or sign of movement inside. She turned towards the tunnel at the other end of the cavern. Khalid and Jaheira were there, standing over a handful of small corpses and panting heavily as Montaron walked from body to body, kicking them with his toe. Behind them smoke rose from the smoldering barricade where several flaming arrows had struck.

"Where's Imoen?" Ashura asked as she jogged up to the two half-elves. They glanced about. Silence.

With growing horror Ashura looked around. No human body lay in sight, but there was no sign of her friend either. She turned to the tunnel and began to run.

"Ashura! Wait!" Jaheira's shout echoed off the walls but she ignored it. There, on the floor before her: heat tracks. Two pairs of kobold feet and a smear of dissipating red sliding along the floor between them. That must be from Imoen's body.

_Please still be alive_ , Ashura thought, turning one corner and then another. There were countless side-passages but it didn't matter. She had a trail. She _would_ catch them. There may be traps but it didn't matter either. If she had to follow them through the flames of Gehenna she would.

As Ashura's anger drove her forward a ghostly blue-white light bloomed from her left fist. When she whipped around a corner the kobolds came into sight, each holding one of Imoen's arms as they dragged her limp body along as fast as they could.

Ashura tossed her left sword down as her rage seemed to well up and take a physical form in the palm of her hand. The light grew and crackled as she flung it towards one of the fleeing kobolds. It struck the creature in the back, and for a brief moment there was a pale stream of light connecting her hand with its body.

The kobold slowed and stumbled, losing its grip on Imoen, and for a moment Ashura could feel the creature's pulse and body-heat. She could feel it all crossing the gap between her hand and its body. The half-healed injuries at her side closed completely and she felt a renewed strength fill her. At the same time she felt the kobold's heartbeat flutter…then cease.

The second reptile had let go of Imoen and yanked a sword from its belt. Ashura charged the creature before it could think to point the weapon at Imoen. Three slashes later she managed to slide her sword down along the edge of her enemy's and bury the edge of her blade into its skull. She gave the creature a hack to the neck for good measure and kicked it aside, then leaned down over Imoen.

There was a little blood on her friend's forehead but with a few shakes Imoen's eyes fluttered open and she squinted up at Ashura. A moment later she sat up, rubbing her head. Once Imoen had recovered a bit she managed to stand with Ashura's assistance. Together they turned and hobbled back towards the camp, the taller girl taking most of the weight.

From time to time Ashura stole glances at her hand. The glow was gone now but the question remained: what in the hells was that power?

Supposedly people whose ancestors were mystical creatures could sometimes perform minor magical feats. Some descendants of elemental beings could fly briefly or produce flames, and some with demonic ancestors could call upon magical darkness. Usually these people were described as having odd appearances. If the blood of genies is thick enough in you that you can levitate it's also likely to give you sky-blue skin and hair the color of clouds. Or so the books said. As far as Ashura knew she was simply a human of Damaran stock and there was nothing odd about her appearance beyond eyes that were a lighter shade of blue than most.

And the power had not been anything elemental. It seemed like she had pulled the life-force from that kobold. She was no expert on magic but that fact and the resemblance between what she had done and the spells Xzar often used led her to believe that she had worked some sort of necromancy. Death-magic. What kind of ancestor would have given her _that_?

She shook her head slightly. It was something to ponder but there were no answers to be found from staring at her hand. The tunnels snaked off in countless directions but by following her own footprints she managed to find the camp easily enough. Infravision sure came in handy.

As they walked past the smoldering barricade Jaheira looked up and gave them a pained smile.

"We cannot break camp yet," the druidess stated once they had settled in. "I need a little more time to fully regain the blessings of the Oak Father." Without explaining further she turned from them, sitting in a cross-legged pose and closing her eyes.

After Imoen declined a healing potion Ashura sat down and helped her friend wrap a few bandages around her brow while Xzar and Montaron returned to their bedrolls to catch whatever rest they could. Ashura couldn't imagine how they managed that. Adrenaline had her wide awake. For several tense hours (or perhaps it was only a single hour, so hard to tell down here,) they sat at the edge of the camp watching the darkness.

 

* * *

The tunnels had begun to gradually slope upwards and the heat that had blinded their infravision had long faded from the walls, though for Imoen and Xzar's sake they traveled by torchlight. Here and there the sound of dripping water echoed. The black rippling stone had disappeared and the new caverns they walked seemed to have been carved by water. It was hard to tell in this cold damp maze if they were on track to the layer of the kobolds, but the path they followed was one of the few that had not dead-ended yet.

Montaron and Imoen were hunched and in the lead, their eyes constantly sweeping along the floor. They had found a few tripwires several hours earlier near the kobold camp but from there it was lifeless catacombs. Ashura wondered if they had missed some hidden entrance, but this seemed as good a direction to go as any for now. She walked behind Khalid and Jaheira at the moment. The couple had their shields up and at the ready.

The distant sound of dripping gradually turned into a louder, distorted gurgle. A little further and it became clear that it was the sound of an underground stream. The tunnel narrowed until they almost had to go single-file – hemmed in by both the walls and low-hanging stalactites – as the flowing water finally became visible. The path they were on crossed a narrow, natural bridge: a pillar that had fallen across the fast-flowing creek ages ago.

They slowed their pace considerably as they approached. The water was rushing fast below the bridge and it was impossible to tell how deep the stream went. The surface of the bridge itself was a bit rounded at the edges but it seemed wide enough for one to cross easily. If they went two at a time they'd have to be more cautious. It was covered in the same sort of sandy dust as the rest of the cave floor and the dampness made it almost muddy.

Imoen and Montaron conferred with a glance and then began to inch along the surface of the bridge, nearly crawling. A few feet in Imoen gasped sharply and made a halting gesture, then pointed. Ashura craned her neck to see. Sure enough there was something protruding from the dust under the flicker of Imoen's torchlight. Something jagged, like teeth. With the end of her bow Imoen gave the floor a quick tap, and in response there was a loud metallic snap and something jumped out of the dust. A steel foot-trap.

Twangs echoed from the far side of the bridge. Suddenly flames lit the walls, arching towards Imoen and Montaron. Khalid and Jaheira had both lunged forward at the sound of the bowstrings and managed to impose their shields over the two scouts. Sparks and cinders flew as the arrows struck both shields, and Jaheira let out yelp and turned her head away as flames licked at her face.

At least the kobolds had become predictable.

"Hold!" Montaron snarled, tapping another spot on the bridge with the pommel of his sword and setting off another foot-trap. Then another. "Clear, I think!" he shouted and Khalid hurdled over him and charged the far side of the bridge.

Two more burning arrows arched through the darkness before Khalid could reach the tunnel beyond. One bounced off his shield but the other slipped past and hit him with enough force to twist his body. He howled in pain, bending over and gripping at the burning object that had sunk into his shoulder.

In answer to the flaming arrows a bolt of ethereal light arched through the cavern and struck one of the archers before it could duck back into cover. The small scaly creature yelped and sank to its knees. Ashura rushed towards the kobold but one of Imoen's arrows found its chest before her sword could. She didn't slow, seeking the second archer. It had broken cover and was hopping away now.

The familiar creak of a bow from somewhere down the tunnel forced Ashura to drop her pursuit and duck against the cave wall. An arrow whistled past her. A second clattered against the stone nearby a heartbeat later. She peaked around the bit of stone that was providing her some cover and saw the glow of three scaly little bodies, all retreating down the tunnel now.

A glance back and she saw that Khalid had ripped the burning arrow out and tossed it away. Jaheira was patting the flames out of his cloak.

Ashura crept backwards a few paces and hissed over her shoulder: "They retreated. At least a bit up the corridor."

Jaheira was chanting a healing prayer now, her hand softly glowing as she held onto Khalid's shoulder. Luckily his gauntlets had kept his hand from getting burned. As soon as the half-elf had caught his breath and risen to his feet they silently fell back into formation and pressed on.

The glowing footprints of the three kobolds led them on and on down a winding path. The creatures seemed to have never slowed. Even when they came to a wider chamber and braced for another ambush the three sets of prints went straight across to an adjoining tunnel. They had to slow their pursuit when Imoen and Montaron spotted something just ahead of the cavern entrance. It turned out to be three separate and carefully disguised sets of tripwire. And several pressure-plates. And some gauss-thin string at various points in the tunnel entrance that released rows of spikes when pulled.

"Sheesh," Imoen muttered. "How many traps can they fit in one spot?"

"It's not so bad," Montaron said with a shrug. "At least we haven't seen any runes in the floor. Bloody magic traps are the worst."

"How do you even disarm those?"

"Pinch of some alchemical powder on the rune," the halfling said, lifting a pouch from his belt and giving the girl a smile. "Ye'd best buy some next time you're in town if you want a true and proper spelunkin' and thievin' kit. Or learn the formula. Something about salt and lead and something else. It's easy enough, but the worst thing 'bout magic traps is that they're set by wizards. Means some spell-slinger could be round the corner."

Imoen nodded. "This passage seems like it was rather important to 'em."

"Aye," Montaron said, trudging forward once they'd made sure the last trap was disarmed. "Means we're on the right track. Whatever hole these yippers live in's up ahead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if there actually is a low level spell in third edition D&D that raises undead creatures of goblin size or smaller, but if there isn't one there should be. Low level necromancers should at least be able to pester their enemies with reanimated rats and whatnot.


	7. Knives in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the inevitable happens, and we finally learn why Ashura and Imoen accepted gifts from the creepy strangers

_"Dividing loot may seem like an afterthought, but it can actually be the most dangerous phase of any adventure."_ –Ribald Barterman, _Old Ribald's Guide to Dungeoneering_

 

* * *

Ever since they had crossed the trapped bridge the sound of rushing water that echoed off the walls had never ceased. It was actually growing louder and louder now. At first Ashura figured it was a trick of acoustics but as they rounded a bend in the tunnel they came upon the source of the noise: a vast cavern dominated by an underground river. The stream must have merely been a tributary.

The river flowed beneath a series of ledges that clung to the walls of the cave. From the ledge that their tunnel emptied out on there was a natural stone path that led to a large island in the middle of the river. The island itself was dominated by a massive pillar that was rounded at the bottom and the size of a lord's manor. There was a small rectangular doorway leading into the pillar that appeared to be manmade. A cave within a cave. Torches were mounted all along the pillar and above the doorway, reinforcing the impression that it was being used as some sort of home.

They took all of this in within the space of two breaths before burning arrows started streaking across the river and the party was forced to retreat back into the tunnel. As soon as the volley ended Imoen and Jaheira rushed out from cover and sent an arrow and a stone flying over the bridge.

"Better be the last bloody bridge," Ashura muttered. She was so tired of being harried endlessly by these little lizards through the dark; ambush after ambush.

It went on like that a few more moments; ducking out and exchanging fire with the kobolds across the rushing water in a loose sort of rhythm. There was a satisfying yip followed by a splash on the third round. Another on the fourth.

Jaheira cried out in pain when an arrow bit into her bicep as she raised her arm to fling another stone, but there was a yelp from the other side as Imoen shot the offending lizard. At least the arrow that struck Jaheira wasn't flaming.

After that Imoen knocked her bow and asked Ashura to check for more kobolds with "that heat-vision stuff." She crawled beside Imoen and peered around the corner. There was no movement and the only glow came from a prone body with an arrow protruding from its chest.

"Wew," Imoen said. "Maybe they're finally running out of kobolds."

Khalid helped his wife bite down on a strap of leather as she ripped the arrow from her arm. It took the druidess a moment to gather her composure and speak the words of a healing prayer while she gripped her wound. It took her a lot less time to rise to her feet and lift her sling, ready for battle once again.

They watched the island for a time but there was no movement. Falling into formation once again the group carefully approached and then crossed the bridge. No traps so far. With their weapons at the ready they stepped through the chiseled archway.

After passing through the entranceway there was a sharp bend and then: a wide chamber lit by candlelight and floored with silk Calishite carpets, of all things. Violet curtains hung at the entrance to the chamber like the flaps of a traveling pasha's tent and nests of blue and red pillows laid around several short mahogany tables. A large hookah sat on one of those tables and brass braziers hung from the ceiling, filling the room with the smell of cloves and incense.

At the far end of the chamber on a raised wooden dais sat a cushion-lined throne of iron. On the throne lounged a humanoid figure in a purple coat of silk-over-chainmail. He appeared to be a grey orc (or perhaps an orc-blooded human. Ashura had no idea how to tell the difference,) with a flat face, porcine nose, pointed ears and the faint hint of tusks at his lower lip. He regarded his guests with narrow, amber eyes.

"Tazok sent you didn't he?" the orc growled, shifting on his throne.

"Uh," Ashura was all Ashura could think to say in response.

The orc rose to his feet. The black sun and half-skull symbol of Cyric was clear on the front of his tabard. He paced on the dais as he spoke. "If you think you can control the little lizards better than I you're mistaken. I held them in check for months! See how you handle a hoard of these things, always arguing, begging for fresh sources of meat, breeding like rats." He paused.

"Um," Imoen said. "Yeah. Well, Tazok says-"

"Oh, I get it," the orc interrupted. "You're not here to just take the reins. Assassins! Here to clean up this whole operation. Make it disappear." His voice was rising now, his rage growing. "Well, I'm not disappearing!" His hand clenched into a fist that crackled with an orange glow. Suddenly there was motion all about as kobolds armed with knives or swords burst from behind several curtains. The hastily parted silk revealed several side-passages. Behind the reptiles taller figures stalked forward; walking humanoid skeletons that appeared to be stitched together by magic, four in total. The walking bones carried maces or swords.

Ashura ignored the rushing ambush and charged the orc directly, crossing the carpet in the space of a breath.

Shields were braced and steel raised protectively; the rest of the party closing in together in a peloton. The wave of kobolds hit them from either side. Jaheira and Khalid managing to interpose their shields and take the brunt of it.

Reaching the orc and hopping onto the dais Ashura slashed at his stomach while the energy gathering at his fist erupted and flew over her head. Her sword bounced away before it even touched his coat, ringing against some sort of unseen barrier. She turned and stabbed with her left-hand blade but the orc had hefted his mace from his belt by then. He swatted her sword aside and then with dazzling speed he reversed the swing, striking the side of Ashura's head with a backhanded blow. Her helmet rang and she stumbled backwards down the wooden steps.

The orc hefted a kite-shield and pressed Ashura further, stomping forward as her swords were turned aside by mace and shield again and again. One slash got through his guard only to be deflected by the invisible barrier once more.

In her peripheral vision Ashura could see the rest of the melee a few paces away. Imoen and Montaron seemed almost buried under the kobolds that had rushed them, grappling in a writhing mass of twisting tails and awkwardly pointed blades. Jaheira was on her feet trying to fend off two of the skeletons at once. The other two walking dead were bound by shimmering ethereal vines that were probably the druidess' doing. Xzar had backed away into the tunnel but his hands were high over his head and swirling in the gestures of a spell.

In the eye of the storm stood Khalid. He was swaying like a punch-drunk brawler and his eyes were glazed and far away. A faint nimbus of orange energy hung about him.

No help forthcoming. _Damn_.

Another swing of the mace caught Ashura on the elbow and her left-hand sword went flying, numbness spreading through her forearm. The orc followed up by pressing in close and bashing full-bodied with his shield. Ashura had to stumble back and dance a bit to retain her footing.

An underhanded swing from the mace was aimed at her stomach but she managed to awkwardly block and catch the rod of the mace with her sword-hilt. The momentum of that desperate parry forced her to lean forward slightly, and she was caught by another bash from the orc's shield, full in the face this time. It was enough to send her feet flying out from under her and she plummeted to the carpet.

Over the ringing in her head Ashura could hear the high pitched shrieks of kobolds and the thump of their little feet against the rugs. The orc's silhouette blotted out the light of an overhead lamp as he loomed above her and raised his mace. Before he could swing several kobolds ran over and past Ashura's prone body, some jostling the orc before scampering by. The little creatures went shrieking all the way.

The orc paused, looking around the battlefield and snarling at his panicked troops. As he did Ashura took a desperate breath and then tried to push herself to her feet. The orc's eyes returned to her before she could get up and he brought his mace down. Ashura had braced herself enough to roll aside on the carpet, and as she did she flung her right-hand sword up to meet the orc.

The mace hit the rug with a muffled thunk and the blade struck the orc in the face. There was resistance from the magical barrier but this time it wasn't enough to fully arrest the motion of the sword.

The orc reeled back as a gash opened across his cheek and nose. His shield-hand pressed to the wound, blood welling up around his fingers.

On her feet now Ashura pressed in. She stabbed while the shield was out of the way and her blade sank through coat and chain and flesh. With a grunt and a grip on the orc's shoulder she pressed the sword deeper into his belly. He lost his grip on his mace and it fell to the floor.

Ashura twisted her weapon a bit and the orc let out a deafening howl of pain, lips close to her ear. His breath had the cloyingly sweet smell of cloves.

Throughout the duel with the orc she had heard the dying shrieks of kobolds, and now beyond the frantic breaths of her foe the room was silent. With a rough yank she pulled her sword from the orc's abdomen and took a step back. He sank to his knees, both hands pressing to the wound. Tears of pain shimmered at the rims of his eyes.

"Mercy, please!" he managed to stammer out. "I beg you! I yield! I-"

Ashura raised her blood-drenched sword to deliverer a killing blow.

A hand gripped her wrist and Khalid's voice rang out, not stammering for once, "No! Wait!"

She turned and glared at him. Khalid had apparently recovered from the spell that had put him in a stupor, and his sword was dripping with blood. Behind him Jaheira was leaning over Imoen and applying healing magic to the redhead's prone form. Jaheira's nose looked bent, her upper lip streaked blood. Montaron stood nearby, casually cleaning his sword and apparently uninjured. _Of course he would be uninjured_. Xzar stood far back, arms calmly crossed over his chest.

"He may have information," Khalid pointed out. "He might tell us who's behind this and why."

Ashura nodded slightly and relaxed her muscles. Khalid let go of her arm, lifting his own sword and pointing it at the orc's throat.

The orc was panting hard. Between gasps he managed to rasp out the words: "I…I'll cooperate. Whatever you need to know. Whatever you want."

"Indeed you will," Jaheira snarled as she left Imoen's side and stomped towards the orc. "And by the Oakfather's power, if I see any sign of lying or treachery I'll call a swarm of fire ants to worry that wound of yours from the inside."

Shaking his head about pitifully the orc stammered, "N-no need. I promise. No trickery w-will… _arise_!"

Carpets and pillows were flung aside in an eruption of motion. There were dust clouds everywhere along with dry, cracking sounds. Ashura tried to lunge at the orc but her wrists were caught by sharp, talon-like hands that yanked her back with unnatural strength. There were hands on her ankles now and clawing finger bones dug into her flesh.

_More reanimated skeletons_ , Ashura realized. The piles of bones had been hidden all over the room beneath tables, tapestries and pillows. At the orc's command they had lurched up, assembled and attacked all in one horribly swift motion.

Jaheira kicked and flailed as two skeletons grappled with her and dragged her down to the floor. A third undead creature fished a kobold's dagger from the carpet and lurched over her, stabbing down. Khalid had managed to beat the undead creature that grabbed at him back with his shield and now he rushed in to assist his wife. The dagger-wielding skeleton got a third stab in before Khalid's sword flashed forward and ribs shattered. The blow nearly cut the thing in half.

Swiveling her head back towards the orc Ashura saw that he had backed up and pressed his hand to his stomach. The familiar glow of a healing spell radiated from the wound. Ashura redoubled her efforts to break away from the skeletal arms that held her back. She tugged and twisted, constantly switching between arms.

As the pain left his face the orc raised his bloodstained hand, palm pointed at Ashura. "By the Black Sun," he began to intone as amber energy sparked to life across his hand. His next words were slow and deliberate, each syllable chanted louder than the next. "I…"

There was a satisfying crack as Ashura ripped a skeletal arm from its socket.

"…command…"

The second arm snapped as Ashura yanked and punched at it simultaneously. She swung her sword down now, chopping at the radius bones of the arms that gripped her ankles.

"…that…you…"

A second chop and the bones splintered, freeing one leg. She kicked forward and the other arm at her ankle was pulled loose. Dragging it along the floor she stomped towards the orc as his voice swelled to a crescendo and the energy burned like a tiny star in his hand.

"…be- _Gak_!" His incantation turned into a breathless gasp. His head pitched forward and he lost control of his legs, flopping towards the carpet. The mass of energy at his hand burst into a shower of sparks and vanished.

Behind the broad form of the orc crouched Imoen, her hand gripping a long, bloody dagger. Ashura rushed forward and rammed her sword through the back of the orc's head and into the rug below. There were spasms for a moment and then that was that.

Glancing back Ashura saw that her companions were still frantically struggling with the skeletons. _Damn_. She had hoped killing the priest would bring them down as well. She placed her foot on the orc's head and yanked her sword free with a grunt, then turned to join the battle.

On the other side of the room Xzar was screaming, "Mommy! Get it off!" A skeleton was clawing at him with its fingertips while he gripped its wrists. Ashura rushed across the carpet, dodging past Khalid as he traded blows with a sword-wielding undead. She leaned in low and slashed at the skeleton that was wrestling with Xzar. Her sword cleanly severed the creature's spine just below the ribcage and it crumbled into is component pieces.

Xzar hopped to his feet and gingerly tossed away the bones that he found himself holding. "Thank you mommy," he told Ashura with a gleam in his eye. The necromancer then patted his hands together and started chanting a spell. A flickering ball of ghost-fire grew and danced between his hands. With the last word (something that sounded like "mortemtus,") the ball went flying into the midst of the undead creatures. There was a hiss that swiftly turned into a piercing shriek and then all of the animated bones locked into place, stone-still.

There was a pause as they all gasped for breath, glancing around. Xzar let out a dramatic cough and they went to hacking and bashing at the skeletons. In the space of a few breaths the frozen creatures were shattered, the magic that held them faltering and the bones scattering across the floor.

As the bones settled everyone but Xzar bent over or sank to the carpet, exhausted and desperate for breath. Once Ashura's lungs stopped burning and she could manage the words she looked over at Imoen, who shared one of the large silk cushions with Montaron. "You okay Ims?" she asked. "Was… _huff_ …worried when I saw you on the ground."

Imoen nodded. "I'm fine. But…" her head tilted towards Jaheira, who lay on the carpet curled in a fetal position as Khalid held her steady. There was a lot of blood, though it was hard to tell the exact source. It was obvious the skeleton with the knife had done some damage.

"I'm…I have no more healing prayers," Jaheira managed to say through raspy breaths.

Ashura glanced briefly at the others then rose and walked over to the half-elven woman. She pulled a healing potion –her last – from her belt. Unstopping the cork she carefully pressed the bottle to Jaheira's lips.

Once she had downed the potion Jaheira murmured a weak "Thank you," and tried to rise to her feet. She winced a bit and wobbled back down to the carpet. At least she was breathing a little easier now.

After a few more deep breaths they took stock. Imoen looked a mess, her leathers torn in half-a-dozen places and her face splattered with blood, dirt and darker things, but she insisted that she was whole. Ashura ached intensely and no doubt there were bruises welling up everywhere under her armor, but nothing seemed broken.

There was a nasty gash on Khalid's side. Apparently the wound had been what woke him from the trance the priest had put him under. There seemed to be no healing potions left, so for now they stitched his wound with a bit of gut-string and bandaged it.

By then Jaheira had managed to stand again and they began to carefully search the room. The dead orc had several rings on his fingers; some that would fetch a good price and one with markings that hinted at magical properties. They also found a square medallion under his coat marked with the holy symbol of Cyric. Khalid claimed that the symbol would work well as proof of what they had done when they returned to Nashkel.

The orc's boots also seemed to have some sort of enchantment, and Jaheira slipped them into her pack for safekeeping. Ashura contemplated replacing her lost chainmail tunic with the orc's armored coat but it was far too large for her. The sleeves would go well past her hands.

More interestingly the orc kept a keychain at his belt, and they soon found a large storage chest tucked away beside the dais. One of the keys easily fit, and inside was a substantial pile of assorted coins along with a few jewels and three swords. Two of the blades were short, gladius-style weapons of matching designed and marked with draconic script along the flats of the blades; a good sign the weapons were enchanted.

Ashura hefted the two short swords, testing their weight and balance.

"Uh uh," Montaron chided her."I use swords o' the shorter variety too, and we're splitin' the treasure even-like."

"Isn't your sword already en-" Ashura began.

"We're splitin' the treasure even-like!" Montaron barked.

"Okay, okay," Ashura conceded and offered him the hilt of one of the weapons. She had seen runes on his sword and dagger and had never seen him fight with two weapons at once, but she didn't want to start anything.

Snatching the sword with a grin Montaron said: "Nothin' quite like pillaging is there? Always my favorite part."

The third weapon in the chest was a longer sword with the sort of frilly, unnecessary curves typical of elven weapons. At the pommel the symbol of a crescent moon was prominently displayed. When Ashura reached out and tried to touch the hilt there was a tingle in her fingertips followed by a sharp electric sting. She yelped and jumped back. Montaron and Imoen both tried to pull the weapon out but came away with smarting fingers as well.

"You needn't bother," Jaheira said as she approached the chest, her voice still a bit low and hoarse. "That's a moonblade. Attuned to a specific elven wielder and no one else."

"Bloody obnoxious thing to surround with treasure," Montaron remarked. "How did the orc even get it in there?"

Picking up one of the smaller silk cushions strewn about the room Jaheira used it to awkwardly grip the hilt and pull the sword free from the bed of coins. The weapon buzzed a bit and sparks jumped before she dropped it on the floor. "Very carefully," she said with a slight smile. "He probably thought this was just some curse he could remove before selling the weapon." With the moonblade out of the way they divvied up the rest of the coins and jewels before continuing to search the chamber.

One side-passage simply led to a small privy, and another held the same sorts of hide beds they had seen at the kobold camp and little else. The third tunnel wound around a few bends and then opened up into a huge natural cavern with a gradually down-sloping floor. The room was much larger than the orc's pleasure-nest.

Stalactites and stalagmites lined the floor and ceiling and at the center of the chamber stood a thick natural pillar. The drip of water echoed through the cavern, the floor a bit soft and silty. There were no tapestries or cushions here but in a relatively clean section of the room a line of tables, benches and storage boxes sat on a long rug of woven grass.

As they entered movement drew their eyes to the center of the room where a figure slumped. It was an elven man who hung from manacles that bound his wrists to the central pillar. He was naked and looked emaciated, even for one of his slender race. Half-healed scars and streaks of blood covered his chest and thighs (Ashura guessed they were lash-marks,) and long, tangled nut-brown hair obscured his face.

The elf raised his head weakly as the party's footsteps lightly crunched on the sandy floor of the cavern. Ashura could see a heavy-lidded eye gleam between dirty locks of hair as he watched her approach. "He must be one of the elves the guards were talking about," she stated. Turning to Imoen she asked "They were from uh…Everska right?"

Imoen nodded. They were standing in front of the prisoner now. "Uh huh." To the elf she asked: "Are you from Everska?"

The man opened his mouth but only a raspy gasp emerged.

"F-for Torm's sake!" Khalid exclaimed as he pushed past the two girls. He had a waterskin in hand and carefully pressed it to the elf's lips. "H-he's had enough o-of interrogations!" The elf drank greedily.

"Ack!" Imoen said. "Sorry. Sorry." She pulled the keychain out of her pocket and began fumbling with it. She had to stand on her tip-toes to reach the lock on the manacles and it took a few tries before she found the right key.

Ashura smiled slightly. Of course Imoen would have snatched the keychain.

When the elf slid down Khalid easily caught him, wrapping his own cloak around the other man's shoulders.

After a few more gulps of water the elven man managed to speak. "I thank you," his voice was a bit raw. He pushed his hair back behind tall, pointed ears to reveal a handsome if haggard face. Khalid helped him walk to a bench and he gave a thankful wince as he sat down. "I am indeed from Everska," he said after a long pause. His voice was somber and nasal.

"The other?" Jaheira asked as if she already knew the answer.

"My partner fell to the kobolds and they took me alive." He looked up and gave Jaheira a long, measured look. "We are Greycloaks. I think you know of us. My name is Xanisteirial Feilien, tasked with finding the source of the tainted iron. In a way I suppose my mission was successful." He winced again.

"I'm afraid I've spent all of my healing magic today," Jaheira apologized.

"No matter," Xanisteirial said. "Mulahey healed me several times. To prolong his…fun. He was less generous with food and water."

"Mulahey?" Imoen asked.

"The orcish priest of Cyric," Xanisteirial said. "I assumed it was his cries of pain I heard a little while ago along with all the other racket. Most satisfying."

"Yeah, we killed him," Ashura said.

"Good," Xanisteirial said, exhausted eyes staring at the floor. He was quiet for a time and Ashura wondered if he was about to pass out, but then he shook himself and began to speak again. "I assume you were here for the same reason as I?" the elf asked.

They nodded.

"Good," Xanisteirial continued, "Because I've learned quite a bit about the iron crisis." He tapped a fingertip against one of his pointed ears. "These pick up a lot more than most would think. Several times I've overheard Mulahey talk with someone who was definitely not a kobold. A human I would guess, named Tranzig. No doubt you've heard of the increasing number of bandit attacks up and down the Trade Way?"

Imoen piped up, "We've seen 'em first hand. Nasty lot those bandits."

The elf nodded. "People think they're just taking advantage of the rising price of iron, but if I heard correctly the bandits are actually highly organized. All under some sort of bandit king named Tazok. Mulahey and Tranzig spoke of him often."

"So this Tazok is our true quarry," Jaheira said. "Though his motives remain unclear."

Xanisteirial nodded. "They seem to be trying to drive the price of iron up by destroying what comes from the mine and seizing untainted iron from trade caravans. I have no idea where the plan goes from there." He shrugged and after a pause he added: "The last meeting between Tranzig and Mulahey was very heated. Apparently the orc's superiors were angry that the kobolds had started killing miners and feared he would be discovered soon." He chuckled a bit. "They were correct I suppose. Tranzig seemed intent on reminding the orc that if he were captured he was to claim he was working for the Zhentarim."

Jaheira nodded. "The tavern rumors say that captured bandits are claiming to be working for the Zhents as well. Whoever is behind this seems intent on framing them for this plot."

"Aye," Xzar said in a strangely solemn tone. "Tis a sad and oft repeated tale. Every evil plot gets laid at the Zhentarim's feet simply because it's what people expect." The necromancer was standing at one of the worktables and carefully brushing his fingers along its contents. Jars and bottles of various alchemical components lined the back of the table while piles of carefully arranged powders and a fine set of brass scales sat at the front. Beside the scales lay piles of parchment.

"The Night Masks," Xzar continued, "the Fire Knives, Red Wizards of Thay, the Cult of the Dragon, Shadow Thieves, agents of the Twisted Rune, the elven supremacists of the Eldreth Veluuthra, rogue Harpers, Sharan cultists…why suspect any of them when you can just blame the Zhentarim?"

"Indeed," Jaheira coldly stated as she stepped in beside Xzar.

Xzar ignored her and bent down over the table, leafing through some papers. He stopped and read one for a while longer than most, smiling. "Ah- hey!" he shouted as Jaheira immediately snatched away the promising leaf. He gave her a hurt look. "But that was the formula!"

"Exactly," Jaheira said, folding the parchment up and stuffing it under her belt. "The formula for the iron-rot mixture. And I'll be keeping it, Zhent."

"Hey now," Xzar protested, "Just because I expressed some-"

"Stuff it!" Jaheira snarled. Khalid was beside her now, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword and his eyes trained on Montaron. The halfling calmly sat at a bench and just grinned back, his hands on his knees. "I've suspected a while," Jaheira continued, "but so far our missions have not been at cross purposes. Shall we keep it that way?"

Xzar waved a placating hand. "Of course. You are fully correct that our mission is to stop the iron crisis. That formula just seemed like a valuable find."

"A dangerous find more like it."

Xzar shrugged and turned back to examining the table. Keeping a cautious distance after that they continued to search the room. In addition to the formula that had caused the contention there were several letters in Mulahey's papers. Looking through the correspondence the only names that appeared were Mulahey, Tranzig and Tazok, discussing things in much the way Xanisteirial had described. Besides that there was little beyond a few notes on kobold lore. Apparently the little lizards really loved dragons and had twenty words for slightly different kinds of tunnels.

In one of the wooden boxes beneath the tables they found some clothes that were apparently the elf's: fine silk and linen garments mostly dyed purple and lined with gold threading. It wasn't quite a smile but a slight look of satisfaction crossed Xanisteirial's eyes as he lifted and carefully arranged the set of trousers, robe and cloak. There was also a lightly bejeweled belt, a jeweled circlet and purple boots. "Glad the orc never got an opportunity to sell these," he said with a little relief.

As he shrugged off the cloak and stepped into the trousers he paused and turned towards Imoen, who was standing close by and staring at his lower half intently. "Um?" the elf asked. "Can I help you?"

Imoen's eyes never lifted from their focus. "Did the orc uh…cut you there?" she asked. "Maybe once Jaheira can heal again..."

The elf looked confused, looked down and then waved his hand. "No. No, that's just a...tradition in my homeland. When we're young the extra skin gets trimmed off. They say it's more sanitary." He shrugged and at the same time slid into his pants, lacing them tight and seeming very happy to have them on.

"Oh," Imoen said, turning away and blushing slightly. "Sorry Xanis…urm…Xanisterl? Xanisteral?"

Xanisteirial shook his head. "Just call me Xan please." He pulled on the his robe and belted it. "In all honesty I get tired of my people's long-windedness as well."

Once they had finished searching the workroom they went back to Mulahey's quarters. Xan surprised the others by bending down and effortlessly picking up the elven sword. He gave it a testing swing and something like the hint of a smile crossed his face. After more searching turned up nothing they made their way out of the kobold den and back across the subterranean river.

Xan pointed to a passage that ran along a narrow shelf round the cavern. It was wide enough for several people to walk abreast but was also a bit sloped and hung over the river. "I can't be entirely sure," he said as they carefully walked above the rushing water, "but Mulahey and Tranzig talked of what sounded like a backdoor that leads to the surface somewhere in this cavern. It's how Tranzig came and went, through what he called 'The Valley of Tombs.'"

"Tombs or not I'll be happy to see sunlight again," Imoen squeaked.

"Not as happy as I," Xan replied.

As they filed along the ledge Jaheira let out a pained gasp and the group halted. The druidess was holding her side and shuddering. Seeing the eyes on her she waved them away. "Just opened the wound a little," she explained. "I'll be fine in a moment."

"No ye won't," a voice behind Jaheira whispered. At the same time her eyes bulged wide. Jaheira's mouth fell open in shock and pain and a trickle of foamy blood spilled from its corner. With a loud clunk that echoed through the cavern she fell flat on her face. Montaron was standing behind her, the hilt of his dagger protruding from Jaheira's back.

Xzar had begun one of his sing-song incantations as Khalid whirled. Steel sang as the half-elf's sword swung from its sheath. "You Zhent bastard!" he screamed as he charged Montaron. Tendrils of golden energy rose to meet Khalid but he charged through them as if they were mist, the look of pure rage on his face never faltering.

Montaron's smug smile vanished as he realized his partner's spell was having no effect. He drew his sword but wasn't fast enough to block Khalid's lightning-quick slash. In an instant the upper half of Montaron's body was flying through the air as his pelvis and legs fell forward, ropey guts spilling everywhere.

"Monty!" Imoen cried out, mouth agape. She sank to her knees.

Ashura's swords were out but confusion kept her from striking. They were her father's friends but…but…

In a whirl Khalid turned to Xzar and charged. The necromancer had started to cast a spell but let out a shocked gasp as Khalid's bastard-sword plunged into his stomach and out the other side. The ghost-light on Xzar's hands never quite went out and he managed to start up the chant again as the two struggled on the a breath tendrils of crackling blue leapt from Xzar's hands and seemed to slither under Khalid's skin. The half-elf quickly grew pale, his pace pained and cheeks getting unnaturally shallow, but the grip on his sword never faltered.

In their struggles they took one step towards the edge of the ledge. Then another. A heartbeat later both men lost their footing and pitched over the side, plunging into the rushing water below.

"Xzar!" Ashura screamed. Her eyes followed the two writhing silhouettes as they floated beneath the surface. She ran along beside them, bending down. Maybe she could pull him from the water. Maybe if she-

A firm hand caught Ashura's elbow and yanked her back. "Are you mad?" Xan barked, narrow elven eyes glaring into hers. A quizzical look crossed his face. "Of course you are," he said as the look turned to one of realization. "I should have noticed earlier." Xan raised a hand in front of Ashura's face and snapped his fingers. " _Tiras krali vistus_ ," he intoned.

A fog lifted from Ashura's head that she hadn't realized was there. She blinked several times and then looked at the carnage around her. "He…" she stammered. "They…this whole..?" Xan nodded.

Ashura glanced over at Imoen, who had the same confused look on her face. The look quickly turned to fury as the redhead stood up and kicked Montaron's lifeless lower half a few times. "Nine fucking Hells!" she shouted.

"Xzar had us charmed this whole time!" Ashura growled. "I kept charging into battle ahead of him. 'Guarding his body.' All those creepy little jokes. And he never even mentioned pay! How could I be so stupid?!"

"It's not a matter of stupid," Xan stated calmly. "Enchantments are my specialty. I know of these things."

Ashura whirled around, pointing a sword in the elf's direction. "Don't you even _think_ -"

The elf raised empty hands. "I won't. On my honor as a Greycloak I will not cast an enchantment spell in your direction. Either of you. I swear." They stared each other down a moment longer and he added: "Provided you keep those swords away from me, of course."

Ashura continued to glare. After a time she lowered her blade. "Good enough I suppose." She turned back to the rushing water. There was no sign of Khalid or Xzar. Both had apparently been swept down the river and into whatever lay beyond the cavern. "If that bastard crawls out of the river I swear I'll kill him myself."

Shaking her head Ashura walked over to Jaheira and turned her body over. Wide empty eyes stared up at the ceiling. "What a mess," she said with a sigh as she leaned forward and pushed Jaheira's eyes shut. "Sorry daddy," she whispered.

Soon Ashura and Imoen turned to practical matters: searching what remained of their companions. Ashura replaced her remaining mundane sword with the magical weapon Montaron had claimed and found that the little bastard had two healing potions secured in bags at his belt. Imoen took Montaron's enchanted dagger out of Jaheira's back and cleaned it. She also claimed the halfling's kit of what seemed to be poisons and thief's tools.

Bending over Jaheira's body Ashura pondered. "It's got some holes in it," she said as she began to undo the straps of Jaheira's armor, "but it'll fit me better than the orc's chain coat." As it turned out Jaheira's splintmail was about her size. She shrugged out of her studded leather tunic and into the heavier set, Imoen assisting with all the straps.

"I hope it serves you better than she," Xan noted.

Ashura shrugged. "At least till we get back to town."

There was a decent amount of coin in the druidess' bags as well as some gems and nick-knacks. She also carried two potions: some liquid in a transparent bottle that Xan sniffed and claimed was a potion of invisibility and a green potion that cold supposedly cure poison. Imoen happily snatched that potion of invisibility up.

One of the more valuable looking finds was a small jeweled pin that depicted a harp held within a crescent moon. "You do _not_ want to carry or attempt to sell that," Xan warned.

Ashura gave him a curious look.

Xan raised an eyebrow. "You don't know what that is?" he asked.

Imoen and Ashura both shook their heads.

"It's the badge of a Harper. Apparently your friend was one of them."

"Gorion always spoke well of the Harpers," Ashura noted. "I wonder…oh. Of course," she muttered as it all fell into place. It was the Harpers who had sent Gorion, Khalid and Jaheira on all those "missions." She stared at the tiny pin for a moment before shaking her head and tossing it into the river.

Next they tossed Montaron a piece at a time into the water, then carefully rolled Jaheira's body over the ledge. Her long brown hair and torn green tunic billowed out around her as she drifted along the surface in the direction her husband had gone. After a time the body slipped under some low-hanging stone and she disappeared into the darkness.

With their rough little funeral finished the three of them continued along the ledge and down a tunnel at the far end. Ashura wasn't sure but she thought she could see light somewhere ahead.

**End of Part One**


	8. First Interlude - Death's Favored Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a Bhaalspawn is busy work

The winds that rolled in off the Sea of Swords were dashing rain against whatever they could, but the east side of the rock stayed dry enough. From time to time there would be a shift in the wind and a few droplets would splatter across the camp, dampening the cloaks and armor of the four companions or hitting their campfire with a hiss. The woman in smooth black platemail never seemed to notice as she sat before the flames. Her eyes were rolled back in her head, empty whites unblinking as the firelight danced in them.

Two other men sat at the fire opposite the woman. One was old, his body hunched and bone-thin. A trimmed, white-streaked beard hung from his sallow face and he wore ragged traveler's robes and a broad hat. The other man was younger, healthier, with Calishite features and long brown hair. His clothing was sturdy but colorful and elegant. Both men warmed their hands close to the fire.

Somewhat away from the shelter of the rock a man in spiked armor paced. He ignored the rain as it pattered against the horned helmet that covered most of his head and face, and each time he turned the massive greatsword at his back clinked against his armor. With every circuit he made at the edge of the camp his eyes briefly fell on the woman.

He glanced at her, turned and impatiently stomped along his path. Then did it again. And again.

Then the woman's eyes rolled forward, the whites replaced by dark brown irises. The man in spiked armor stopped and a slight smile appeared on his face, hidden behind the jawguard of his helmet. "Tamoko, you've returned," he said in greeting. His voice was deep and resonant.

The woman in black armor nodded, her eyes still fixed on the flames. Her face was round, with the almond-shaped eyes and dark hair of an easterner from Kara-Tur or beyond. When she spoke her voice was low and soft. "Kossuth's flames have led us true. Ghostwalker shelters in a cave along the coast to our north. Perhaps four miles travel and deep within a cove."

"Good," said the man in spiked armor as he turned from the campfire. "Then we will overtake him this night. Come." He gestured for his companions to rise and follow.

"I could not mask my presence from him," Tamoko apologized. "He will be preparing for us as we travel."

"That was to be expected," the armored man said dismissively.

The Calishite shot to his feet and smoothed out his cloak, then helped the old man up. With a wave of Tamoko's hand the fire hissed and died and they set out into the rain.

It had taken the combined magics of Tamoko, Winski and Semaj to pierce the layers of protection Ghostwalker used to cloak himself from scrying. Doing so had warned their quarry that he was being hunted, and they had been harried constantly on their journey along the coast by odd weather, enraged animals and supernatural creatures. This final leg of the hunt was relatively quiet though, and they met nothing in the last hours walking the coast beyond rain and wind. No doubt Ghostwalker was saving whatever defenses he had left for when it really counted.

As they approached the cove they found it covered by unnatural mists; a thick wall of pure white that reached from the lapping water to the sky. Winski – the old man in ragged clothes – raised his gnarled hands and carefully enunciated a few arcane words. A silent gust swept in, turning the wall into a series of sputtering whirlwinds and pushing them aside, parting the mist.

As the air cleared nearly a dozen shimmering forms were revealed, their softly glowing bodies rising from the sand. They were barely more substantial than the mists: blue-white ethereal creatures in the shape of wolves. Their fur flowed and shifted like billowing clouds and their eyes were sharp gleaming pinpricks of light. One by one they threw back their heads and howled.

The greatsword slid from its place at the armored man's back and into his hands with practiced ease. He stared the ghostly wolves down as they fanned out, shifting his sword slowly from side to side, and as he did a bright yellow glow began to emanate from his eyes. At either side of the armored man Winski and Semaj began to chant the words of separate spells, palms extending as they lit the night with tongues of lightning and streaking bolts of eldritch energy.

When they were struck by the magical attacks the spirit-wolves yelped just like any other hound. However when they closed and attacked they did so like no natural beast. They seemed to waver and flow, constantly shifting in and out of existence. Paws and bared teeth would rush towards the armored man then turn into a puff of ethereal smoke. A heartbeat later that puff would reform behead him and leap as the wolf tried to flank and bring him down.

The man in spiked armor whirled and moved just as quickly as the wolves could ghost in and out of existence, his sword a blur. Sharp as their supernatural teeth were they could not dent his armor. Heavy as their bodies became when they materialized and collided with their prey the man never lost his footing. He shrugged the shaggy bodies off, sending some back with wounds from his jagged armor.

His sword mostly struck empty air as it sliced at the ghosting wolves, but here and there the blade would hit something satisfyingly solid. When struck the beasts bled a white glowing substance that rose into the air and faded rather than spilling out like blood. With enough slices whatever magic held the spirit wolves together would waver and they would evaporate like mist.

Close by Tamoko raised a mace in one hand and a red ball of fire in the other. With a word she lit the night with a pillar of flames that descended from the darkness and struck one of the wolves, dissolving its body with a hiss and a puff.

Tamoko continued to hold her hand aloft as she sang out a second prayer in the tongue of Kozakura. As two more spirit wolves closed in on her flames once again bust into existence, wreathing her body and making the polished surface of her armor shine. A wolf that dared ghost close to her and snap its jaws was rebuked by the fire, shifting away. She advanced on the creature and its companion, pressing them with her mace and the tongues of flame that encircled her.

Moments later there was nothing of the spirit-wolves save dissipating mists. Hoisting his sword the man in spiked armor began to stomp towards the nearby cave that had been at the heart of the fog, the others falling in behind him. The glow had faded some from his eyes, revealing black war paint. The opening was narrow and carved into an eroded wall of sandstone. Tall sea oats waved along the ridge above.

In the sand at the mouth of the cave were several sets of footprints, all leading out and away. Two sets were more or less the size of a humanoid adult, and the rest – perhaps three others – were quite small. _Ghostwalker's wife and children_ , the armored man guessed. _That could be a problem later, if they are allowed to grow and seek revenge_. But that was at the bottom of his concerns tonight. Bending a bit the armored man shrugged his way into the sea cave.

The chamber inside was round and wide, sloping to a central point where a large fire danced. Furs were laid out everywhere, along with clay pots and painted pieces of wood and gourd and bone. The smell of smoke hit the armored man's nostrils as he slowly stepped forward. It was thick and rich: burning wood mixed with cherry bark and the stronger smell of various herbs. Trails of white smoke rose and swirled from the flames to form shifting patterns that could not have been random.

Before the fire sat a broad, muscular figure, his back turned. His voice was deep but dry and raspy. As he spoke trails of smoke rose from his lips to join the whirling patterns above. "Young Lord Anchev," he said by way of greeting.

"You insult me, Ghostwalker," the armored man said coldly. "You of all people should know the true name of my father. Of _our_ father."

"We are all formed by where we grew as much by the blood," Ghostwalker said. "Just as the Shattered Bone Clan made me what I am the Anchev clan made you. And I believe I am entitled to insult the man who has come here to murder me this night, am I not?" Ghostwalker asked that question mockingly as he rose to his feet and turned to reveal the flat face of a youthful orc framed by long, dreadlocked hair. His chest was bare, his loins covered by an assortment of cured hides woven together into a skirt. There was a strip with the pattern of a cheetah, another with the fur of a bear. Others had the texture and hue of humanoid flesh. As he spoke the whirling patterns of smoke had expanded above Ghostwalker's head. Bodies seemed to dance in the mist. Faces turned and spoke and screamed.

The armored man's companions had spread out, a bit behind him and near the cave wall. Their hands were out and ready to begin flinging magic.

"I do what must be done," the armored man stated coldly as he raised his sword to a ready position.

The orc shook his head. "You study some moldy books and think you know how this must play out."

"Alaundo's prophesy-"

"You studied some moldy books," Ghostwalker interrupted, his voice rising, "while I have stared into the ether just as Alaundo did. And I know that your quest is futile."

"Ha. If you really can do that by looking into flames and inhaling burning resins then surely you saw your own death. Here. Tonight."

The statement was meant to be baiting, but Ghostwalker answered without hesitation. "I did. I saw my death and thus I will not ask you to stay your hand. I saw my own death and I saw many deaths beyond that. Death on a titanic scale, leading to the final struggle for our father's throne."

"It is just as I-"

"It is and it is not." The smoky images had grown more sharp and resolved. In it the armored man could see an otherworldly vista made of writhing forms melted together to form strange statues. Some sort of massive structure rose from the twisted landscape, and atop it figures struggled. Ghostwalker inclined his head slightly, also watching the misty scene unfold. "Do you see it? A cosmic battle atop the Throne, years from now. There are many combatants but only three appear clearly, illuminated by our father's power." It appeared as he said: there were three forms that seemed truly solid while the rest were vague and ghostly. "You see them too don't you? Three women."

"All I see is smoke."

With a shimmer a long spear appeared in Ghostwalker's hands. It was oaken and tipped with obsidian, marked by swirling patterns of glowing red and green. Winski and Semaj aimed their fingers, spells ready on their lips. "See what you like," Ghostwalker said. "I have tried but I cannot see beyond this point to who wins the battle atop the Throne. Regardless it's clear that it will end with the ascension of a Lady of Murder. We are irrelevant."

The armored man shook his head slightly. "You of all people should know the mutability of fate. Especially for those such as us."

"Then test that mutability. We all have our parts to play this night. _Zrrak kurm!_ " With that guttural bark there was a sound like the ripping of grass and long, tall lines of thorn-bearing plants wavered into being between the armored man and his companions. There was a crackling sound as the three others flung their spells against the wall of thorns.

Ghostwalker twirled his spear and grinned at the man in spiked armor. In response the man raised his sword and the intense glow returned to his eyes and spilled out from the maw of his helmet, burning like the fires of Gehenna.

The smoky vista continued to hang in the air behind Ghostwalker, the scene from across time and space and possibility playing out. The man in spiked armor averted his eyes, focusing only on the duel before him. But before he pushed all else from his mind and leapt forward to attack an uneasy feeling came over him.

The feeling that he recognized one of the faces in the smoke.


	9. The Last Frayed Nerve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we're shown for the first (but not last) time that Imoen is dangerious

** Part Two – Making a Living or Making a Killing? **

_ "Swords! Not words!" – _ Minsc

* * *

Mirtul 10, 1368 D.R.

From the narrow mouth of a cavern at the center of the Valley of Tombs three ragged figures emerged. They covered their faces at first, wincing away from the bright glare of the midday sun. Two of the figures were women – girls really – in their late teens, maybe close to twenty. One of the women was a half-head taller than the other, with long black hair that had spilled out of a once neat ponytail quite some time ago. That hair was now greasy and clumped in places with dried blood, and bloody grime streaked her pale face beneath narrow, ice-blue eyes. She wore stained splintmail armor that was nicked in over a dozen places.

The shorter woman had copper-red hair that had once been straight and shoulder-length but was currently a tangled mess. Her face was also smeared with blood and muck and she wore black leathers and a torn purple-and-black-trimmed cloak.

The third figure was male, with the sharp, angular features of a moon elf. He wore relatively clean, high collared purple robes that hung awkwardly on his emaciated frame. His brown eyes were sunken, dark underneath and red rimmed. At his brow a gold and amethyst circlet held back his long brown hair, and at his belt hung a longsword with an ornate moonstone pommel.

As the sun washed over his face the elf closed his eyes and turned his head upwards, soaking up the light. After a time he spoke. "Ah, I thought I'd be trapped in that dismal vault for the rest of my life." He inclined his head towards the two young women. "I thank you again."

The girl with the black hair – Ashura – was leaning against the wall of the cave. "Sure," she said with a shrug. After a pause she added: "Could have gone better on our end."

Xan shook his head. "You cheated death, and that's all that counts. Each and every day. We even seem to have completed our missions in a roundabout way."

"I suppose we should report to Berrun?" Ashura asked. She held a vial of the liquid the kobolds had been using to taint the iron up to the light. "Show him this?"

"Indeed," Xan said with a nod as he surveyed the landscape. The soil was dry and sandy here, specked with golden scrub grass and a few cacti. "Judging from the conversations between Mulahey and Tranzig this valley is somewhere at the northern edge of the Cloudpeaks, east of Nashkel. North then west should take us back. Eventually."

They began to march through the dusty valley and soon found themselves on a path that sloped up and up. "You have any spells ready?" Imoen asked Xan. "Just in case?"

He frowned. "I do. There were a few spells I was not able to attempt on the orc since he kept my hands bound. But as I told you my specialty is magic of the mind. That does little good against things that crawl out of…tombs."

"We'd best be leaving quickly then," Ashura said.

The path out of the valley was clear, but it quickly turned from an uphill march to a climb over sandstone boulders and slopes of jagged rock. Sweat began to wash the bloodstains from Ashura's face as the high mid-Mirtul sun beat down and she crawled and clambered her way up. When they reached a stony plateau above the valley they stopped a moment to rest and reclaim their breath.

Ashura was bent over and panting a bit when she heard a shocked gasp. _Imoen_. She stood and whirled around to see what was wrong with her friend. There was a woman wearing a hooded cloak and boiled leathers standing behind the redhead. She carried a bow, the string pulled and an arrow knocked and aimed at Imoen's back.

Her hands were at her sword hilts but Ashura found herself letting out a weary sigh. Of course they'd be ambushed by bandits as soon as they left the caves. Was nowhere on this whole bloody planet safe?

There was a cough from a nearby boulder and a second woman in leathers stepped into view. She held a small throwing knife in a ready position, her eyes fixed on Xan. There was a second knife in her other hand. Something green and faintly luminescent clung to the tip of the knife; a sure sign of magical poison. "Nice and slow," the woman hissed as Xan raised his hands.

Two more women stepped into view from behind boulders further along the plateau. These two were armored more heavily, one with a platemail breastplate and grieves and the other in a long chainmail coat. The surcoats over both sets of armor depicted twisted black antlers on a red, triangular field. The holy symbol of Beshaba.

The priestess in chain approached from the left and the one in plate from the right. The first woman raised her arms in preparation to cast a spell and the second hefted a mace and rested it on her shoulder before she spoke.

"Ashura, I presume." The priestess' voice was deep and mocking. "Rumor was that you traveled with a much larger war-party. I see the Maid of Misfortune has been giving you a lot of attention."

Ashura just glared and Imoen spoke up. "Oh, the others are on their way. Six-"

The priestess in plate shook her head. "Don't bother," she said. "Our augers told us you would be passing through here this afternoon. You can't hide your numbers from one who can see you across time and space."

"Did your augers tell you exactly how I'm going to kill you?" Ashura asked with a low growl.

The priestess ignored the threat. "Now, we just want you Ashura. Surrender and we'll take your head off nice and cleanly and send your friends on their way. Or," she addressed Xan, "you could hand her head over to us. Just-"

There was a waver in the air and Imoen simply vanished. A glass vial fell from the spot she had been standing and shattered on the ground.

The hooded woman with the bow glanced around, snarling. With a thump she fired her knocked arrow through the space where Imoen had been but it bounced harmlessly off stone.

At the same time Ashura charged the priestess in the chainmail coat. Her opponent had her arms in the air now, swirling as she chanted a prayer to bring all manner of misfortune down on Ashura's head. Before the chant was finished Ashura leapt across the last few paces between her and the priestess and drove the bottom of her boot into the woman's abdomen with enough force to send her stumbling backwards. The priestess' arms pinwheeled and the magical energy that had been gathering at her fingertips crackled and went out.

Something bit into Ashura's back and she winced but kept pushing forward. _Almost there_. With a slash of her sword a deep gash appeared across the Beshabin's cheek. Another kick and priestess was flailing wildly and grasping at air as she plummeted backwards off the edge of the plateau. She struck a rock on the way down, bounced, struck another.

Ashura turned back in time to see the archer aiming her bow. There was a gleaming streak along the archer's neck and then a torrent of blood as Imoen wavered back into existence behind the woman. The bow clattered to the ground as the archer frantically gripped at her slit throat, her face going ghostly pale in the space of a few heartbeats as she went down.

Turning from that Ashura launched herself at the priestess in plate armor; the apparent leader of the group. Steel rang out as her sword met the woman's mace. Her next swing was also parried, and the Beshabin easily anticipated the follow-up stab from Ashura's second weapon and dodged it. Something felt wrong about the way she was swinging her swords. The weapons were too heavy, her movements too sluggish.

The wound in her back! It must have been one of those poisoned knives. And the damn thing had struck right at the hole Montaron had put in the armor. Either she had terrible luck or the knife-thrower had impeccable aim.

In her offhand the Beshabin held a growing spiral of orange energy. Another bat from her mace kept Ashura's swords at bay with minimal effort. "Maid of Misfortune…" she began to chant, but as she did something streaked past Ashura and lodged in the gap of the priestess' armor under her arm. The woman snarled in pain and shock and the light in her hand faltered and died. Another streak and then another flew towards the priestess, one of the missiles clattering off her armor and the other slipping through a gap and imbedding itself in the woman's arm at the elbow.

Gripping her injured arm the priestess staggered back, looking down at the weapon that had struck her. A throwing knife. She looked up and glared at her companion. "Zeela? Why?!" she growled. The other woman's hood had fallen back to reveal curly blonde locks and empty, dazed eyes. She stood there, staring at nothing in particular and out of throwing knives. The Beshabin took the empty look for an answer.

The priestess whirled back towards Ashura and swung her mace, wide and drunkenly; easily dodged. Ashura staggered forward and tried to strike back but her sword-arm was just as sloppy and she missed entirely. The two combatants breathlessly glared at each other as their grips on their weapons loosened.

With a frustrated snarl Ashura just dropped her swords and launched her body at the priestess, putting all of her strength and weight into the tackle. Steel screeched against steel as the two armored women crashed to the ground, the helmetless head of the priestess cracking against the rock as she took the force of the fall.

Clinging to her opponent's shoulders and ramming them against the ground Ashura managed to climb up a bit. She straddled her enemy, gripping the blonde woman's neck with both hands and slamming the back of her head against the stone again and again. The priestess grabbed at Ashura's wrists and tried to roll, thrashing and sliding her feet against the ground in frantic kicks. The struggles grew weaker and weaker as Ashura squeezed and bashed with all the strength she had left. They struggled there on the ground for what seemed like an eternity but was probably just a few moments, Ashura's fingers digging into her enemy's throat as the priestess struggled for breath and found none.

The priestess' eyes had long since rolled back in her head and her cheeks gone from bright red to purple when Ashura's limbs gave out and she released her grip, slumping over the still body of the Beshabin. Her hands and feet were numb, tremors wracked her limbs, and however much she tried she couldn't seem to get enough breath.

A wave of nausea ran through Ashura's body and she bent down further over her still opponent and vomited. When she had emptied her guts coughs wracked her until she felt like her stomach was going to turn inside out.

Once the coughing had abated a bit she managed to look up at the battlefield through bleary eyes. The knife-thrower was still standing there between her two still companions, eyes empty and body wobbling a bit like a puppet dangling from strings. Doubtlessly she had gotten a dose of Xan's 'magic of the mind.'

The empty look vanished and the woman's eyes shot wide open with shock when Imoen silently slipped behind her, yanked her amber hair back and slit her throat. The sudden cut was long and deep, and when Imoen dropped her the woman slumped over and bled out as quickly as her companion had.

There was a look of cold savagery in Imoen's eyes that Ashura had never seen before, but it was quickly replaced by sheer exhaustion as the girl looked down, shoulders slumped. Then Ashura's vision fogged up with tears and she bent over, coughing and retching again.

Rushing over to Ashura's side Imoen knelt and pulled the cork out of a bottle. She pressed it to her friend's lips. The liquid tasted awful but once she'd choked a little down the nausea subsided and pins, needles and acute aches returned to Ashura's arms and legs. She drank the rest up greedily and her strength soon returned.

When she tried to stand the motion made her cringe and she realized the knife was still stuck in her back. She slid back down, lying on the earth beside the dead priestess. Somewhere nearby Xan sat down, cross-legged.

"So there's a bounty on your head?" the elf asked.

Ashura turned her head to the side and pressed her face to the ground. It felt good to lie down. "Yeah," she said. "Thanks for not trying to collect." Imoen was sitting close by now.

"Of course," Xan said. "I owe you two. You saved me from a _very_ unpleasant fate, and the least I can do is try to keep you alive, difficult as that seems to be." There was a long pause as they sat there on the plateau. Eventually Xan broke the silence. "Are you going to tell me why there's a bounty on your head? Or just rebuke me for prying?"

Ashura took a breath, chuckled and immediately regretted it as she felt a stab of pain from the knife. "Honestly," she said, "I have no idea. Ever since we left…our home and hit the road we keep bumping into these assassins. They killed my father the first time. Kidded myself into thinking maybe they had just been after him but they've been attacking me ever since."

"I think she's some sort of long-lost princess," Imoen interjected. "She was a foundling you see. Maybe she's the Princess of Tethyr and they keep sending assassins to keep her from reclaiming the throne."

"Do I look like the princess of Tethyr?"

"Well, you've always been kind of pale. Maybe you're the Princess of Icewind Dale?"

"Icewind Dale doesn't have princesses. It's just a bunch of barbarian tribes."

"Ooo-kay. Well, you're Damaran looking. Maybe you're the princess of Bloodstone."

"Bloodstone's something like a million miles away from here."

"Yer no fun!"

"You're a foundling too Imoen. Maybe you're a princess."

Imoen smiled. "Now there's something to think about. What could I be the princess of?"

Ashura had several ideas, all of them very vulgar. But instead she asked: "So Ims? Are we going to do this? The usual routine: You yank the knife out and then I gulp down a healing potion as fast as I can?"

Imoen chuckled. "Figured you were working up the courage." She took a deep breath, reaching out till her hand gently hovered over the hilt of the knife. "You ready?" she asked.

"Never ready," Ashura said as she pulled one of Montaron's healing potions from her belt, unstopped the cork and braced herself for the pain that would come when the knife was ripped out. "But we have to do it anyway."

* * *

It was about an hour after sunrise when the three bedraggled figures finally reached Nashkel. Squat buildings appeared out of the thick mist that rolled off the river, the first sign of civilization they'd seen in some time, and all three sighed with relief. They were worn ragged and close to being asleep on their feet, but the promise of shelter and the desire to finally walk the last leg of their "mission" had driven the three on through the night.

Though exhausted in body they were at least a bit richer. Imoen wore a fresh set of leathers and both she and Ashura carried freshly pilfered and unfrayed cloaks. Upon searching and stripping the corpses of the party of assassins the day before they found that the archer and knife-thrower had been wearing enchanted leather armor. Imoen picked out the lightest set and Ashura carried the heavier studded leathers in her pack, along with every other valuable that she could find a way to comfortably carry.

As they wound down the path from the mountains and began along the Trade Way into Nashkel several Amnish soldiers filed towards the companions, poleaxes at rest on their shoulders. One of the guards –short and female – whispered something to the older looking woman who seemed to be in charge of the unit. Ashura thought she recognized the younger soldier and after a clearer look she realized why: she had been their guide through the mountains days ago.

The older soldier raised her nose and gave the three a narrow, appraising look. "Returning from the mines?" she asked.

Xan stepped forward. "In a roundabout way," he said.

There was a lot of whispering among the soldiers before their leader silenced them with a glare. She turned to the three companions. "I remember you Greycloak. We all thought you were long dead."

"I thought I was as well. It's a long story."

"Well don't leave us in suspense. What did you find?"

Xan took a deep breath. "Exactly what you suspect. The cause of the corroded iron. It is dealt with now."

"Now that's quite the claim."

"On the honor of this Greycloak, it is so."

The soldier tilted her head a bit. "Well, we'd best take you to the boss man right away then. Follow."

They were led to a path that branched off of the Trade Way and past low stone walls. Beyond that they walked by carefully sheered hedges and wide flowerbeds that reminded Ashura of the sprawling gardens of Candlekeep. Past the hedges stood a broad manor house with white brick walls and a well-tarred roof. A pebbled path wound up to the door where the soldier gently knocked.

The door was answered by a dour elderly man who simply shook his head at them. It took an agreement from the disheveled adventurers to remove their boots and be searched before they left the house for the servant to allow them in. The Amnish commander just rolled her eyes.

From there they were led barefoot over fine Calishite carpets and up a staircase, then down a wide hall lined with gilded paintings. The hall eventually came to the master bedroom, where the servant gently knocked and exchanged some words with the occupant before allowing the three to enter. A strong smell of incense hit them as they stepped into the candlelit room, though it was not quite enough to hide the scent of bile and soiled linens. Propped up on the wide four-post bed that dominated the room was a gaunt and ancient man in a white nightgown and cap.

The old man gave a slight nod of greeting and Xan bowed. "Lord Ghastkill," he said. Behind them came footsteps and Berrun Ghastkill entered the room. He quietly walked past them to take a seat in a stuffed chair at the old man's bedside.

"My son," Lord Ghastkill said in a low, raspy voice as he inclined his head towards Berrun, "has told me about the adventurers he's been sending into the mines in search of the corruption. I am pleased to see that you have returned."

"Though you've returned a bit short," Berrun said with a frown. "The Harpers aren't with you. Or the-"

"Zhentarim," Imoen interrupted. "Kinda' wish we had known who they were."

Berrun gave her a confused look. "I assumed you did. The Zhentarim use some rough methods but believe it or not they've helped the people of Amn several times when our interests line up. I thought they'd even work with Harpers in the same circumstances. But I take it from the look you're giving me-"

"Damn right," Imoen said with a bit of a pout. "They worked with 'em just fine right up till they stabbed 'em in the back. Literally."

"Sad but predictable," the elder Ghastkill noted.

"It was right after we found the alchemical recipe for the stuff that makes the iron brittle," Ashura said. "Jaheira took it and I think Xzar wanted it so they had a bit of a falling out. We saw two of them die and the other two were in pretty bad shape when they went down in an underground river."

"Alchemical formula?" Lord Ghastkill asked.

Xan nodded and stepped forward, producing a vial of green liquid. From there he began to tell the story of how the iron was tainted and by whom. When he came to the part about Mulahey Ashura handed the mayor the holy symbol of Cyric they had taken from the orc's body, and he confirmed that the priests of Helm would be able to learn quite a bit about its former owner.

"And that's the how of it," Xan said as he finished the tale. "The 'why' is a bit unclear, and my mission demands that I investigate further. However I do think I can assure you that your ore will no longer be sabotaged. Without the orc leading them the kobolds will probably scatter and the formula for the iron-rot is safely out of their hands regardless."

Berrun nodded slowly. "It's quite a story, but I'll accept the word of a Greycloak. Speaking of which I am sorry for your loss. I'm sure Alithan will be missed."

Xan's eyes were distant as he inclined his head ever so slightly. "Thank you," he said absently.

There was silence for a time, eventually broken by Berrun. "So it seems now that our sabotage problem is solved we have a reward to give out. There's just one outstanding matter." He reached his hand out. "The alchemical recipe?"

Ashura pulled the rolled up bit of parchment from her pack and began to hand it over.

"Uh, people died you know…" Imoen noted as Berrun snatched the parchment up. He ignored her, unrolling the scroll and glancing at it a moment. Rolling it back up the mayor turned and placed the edge of the parchment against the flame of a nearby candle, setting it alight.

"That's a valuable weapon," the old lord stated coldly.

His son shook his head. "Not worth it. Especially not considering the hands it could end up in." There was something pointed and personal about how he put that last phrase.

"Perhaps not," the old lord said with the slightest of shrugs.

Berrun turned back to the two girls and the elf as the scroll burned down. "The reward we were offering for ending the contamination is one thousand danters."

Xan shook his head slightly and waved a hand. "It's all theirs," the Greycloak said. "I was a bound prisoner when they defeated Mulahey."

"Aww," Imoen said. "You've been a big help though! We can split it three ways."

Ashura gave her friend a shocked look.

"It really wouldn't be proper. My organization supplies me well enough and I do this for the good of Everska." After a thoughtful look crossed his face he amended a bit. "Although…I will need supplies to continue my investigation. If you help me stock up for the road along with a little spending money for travel we can call all debts repaid."

"Sure," Imoen said with a bright smile. "It's the least we can do."

Berrun left the room and returned some time later with a hefty bag that was nearly the size of a halfling's head. He sat it in Imoen's hands with a satisfying clink. "Count it up when you please. And be careful not to wave it around in public. Though, if you want to help the town further…" he went on.

"We're a little worn out at the moment," Ashura began but Berrun raised a finger.

"If you want to help the town further you can put some of that coin back into the local economy. We've been delaying the Spring Fair because of the crisis, but now I see no reason not to commence preparations."

"Oh!" Imoen squealed. "Of course we'll go!"

Ashura chuckled. "After a hot bath and a change of clothes at least."

"Of course. The fair won't be up and going for at least half a tenday in any case. For now you're welcome to stay in our guest chambers." He inclined his head. "If that's okay with you father?"

The old lord nodded absently. "Of course. Stay as our guests, and with my blessing. You've done us quite the service."

Imoen smiled and bowed slightly. "Most kind of you, m'lord."

The servants still gave them disdainful looks as they were led to the guest chambers but Ashura didn't care. She felt like she could sleep for days. When she hit the feather bed she very nearly did, sleeping from late morning all the way to the next dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A danter is a gold coin minted in Amn, according to the old Forgotten Realms second edition sourcebook "Lands of Intrigue."


	10. Carnival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A well-earned chance to party, catch some entertainment, and contemplate building thrones of skulls

_ "Would it really be so cruel a fate? To wait the ages out as strong and still as stone?" _ –Deekin Scalesinger, _The Shadow of_ _Undrentide (Edited for spelling and grammar by Grobnar Gnomehands)_

* * *

"Oh! Oh! I wanna ride the unicorn!" Imoen announced, pushing her way through the milling crowd.

"I'm pretty sure that's just a horse with some ivory stuck to its nose," Ashura pointed out. The comment got her a playful slap on the shoulder.

'Pish!" Imoen retorted. "I've read the bestiaries too. You're missing the point!"

Ashura shrugged. "The point is that they put on a good show?"

"No, the point is that I'm a pretty princess who's going to ride a unicorn."

Ashura rolled her eyes.

"Didn't you ever want to be a princess? We were surrounded by so many stories of 'em in Candelkeep. Swept away by gallant princes or returning from exile to reclaim their kingdom and such. And occasionally getting fed to dragons. I guess that's the downside."

Ashura shook her head. "Always preferred a different sort of story. Like the ones with the stoic barbarian who rolls into town and ends up slaying all the asshole sorcerers who get in his way. Maybe at the end he winds up with a naked slave-girl clinging to his ankle while he broods on a throne."

Imoen raised an eyebrow. "You want to be a slave-girl? Now that's a side of you I've never seen."

"Nah. More like I'd like to be on that throne. Maybe replace the slave-girl with a naked slave-boy or two. Hm, and make it a throne of skulls!" She flexed her arm a bit and added an: "Argh!"

Imoen giggled. "Doubt there's a ride like that here."

"Then maybe I'll try hatchet-throwing. Don't think I'd even know what to do with a slave, and thrones of skulls are probably best left in the storybooks."

The Nashkel fair stretched out before them; rows and rows of colorful tents haphazardly arranged along a series of wide forest clearings. The smells of roasting meat and cooling confections wafted through the air along with jaunty drum-and-fife music and harpsong. Several companies of minstrels could be heard at once. Their styles and voices clashed a bit, adding to the overall din along with the cries of children and the murmur of adults.

Imoen skipped ahead to the makeshift corral where the 'unicorn' shuffled around with two children clinging to its back. Ashura turned away and absently browsed the stalls. _That Imoen. Next thing she'll be buying one of these stuffed dragons._

Ashura purchased a skewer of candied fruit and quietly began to munch, watching the crowd pass by. It was good to have a bit of peace. Even better to have a lot of money. Days ago she had replaced Jaheira's armor with a new chainmail tunic that she wore over a padded black doublet and a skirt of interlocking black leather strips that came down to her knees. She also wore thin leather gloves and the magical boots they had pilfered from Mulahey. Apparently the boots conferred some resistance to electricity, though she was not eager to test it. She had left her helmet back at the manor house but wore the chain tunic to the fair. Can't be too careful when there's a bounty on your head.

"Art thou the heroine of Nashkel?" a feminine voice asked in an archaic dialect.

Looking up from her snack Ashura saw a very short woman with dusky skin and a round face standing across from her. The woman's nose was upturned a bit, her manner serene, giving her an air of haughty nobility. Small hoop earrings decorated with animal teeth hung from her ears and three bronze hoops were wrapped around her neck above a round golden amulet. She wore a purple dress of sturdy fabric that displayed a generous amount of cleavage.

Behind the woman stood an imposing warrior, tall and broad at the shoulders with a bald pate and what appeared to be a permanent, good natured smile on his face. A wide circular tattoo in purple ink decorated his head above and across his right eye. His armor was a light combination of lacquered splints and boiled leather. The man looked vaguely Mulan and Ashura guessed that the woman might be Rashemi. They were both rather young, perhaps in their early twenties if that.

Ashura snorted. "Heroine? Hardly."

"Ah," the man said in a thick accent similar to the woman's, "but that humility is the true mark of a hero!"

"If you say so," Ashura responded, "but I'm really just a survivor. Well, me and Imoen over there." She pointed at the redhead, who was happily making the 'unicorn' trot around as she gave an exaggerated, queenly wave to onlookers real and imagined. "We were following along with more experienced adventurers and they all turned on each other and wound up dead."

The woman in purple inclined her head. "We have heard rumors of such. I am sorry for thy loss."

"Thanks," Ashura said, examining her candied stick. Much like Gorion's death she had relived the incident dozens of times in her head, wishing there was something she could have done. Gorion had ordered her to run, and she could blame standing by in the mines on Xzar's charm spell, but that didn't make her feel like less of a failure.

"I am Dynaheir," the woman said, inclining her head, "and my companion is named Minsc. We are travelers from distant Rashemen."

"I'm Ashura Adrian, as you probably already know." She was nervous about her real name being spoken around town, but it had gotten out and there was nothing she could do now. Imoen and her damn giant mouth.

"If I might impose on thee further," Dynaheir asked, "canst thou tell me what thy learnt of the iron crisis in those mines? Rumors abound, but we wish to know the truth."

"Ya, everyone and their mother seems to be investigating that around here. What's your interest? Rashemen is pretty far removed from the Sword Coast iron trade."

"Tis true," Dynaheir admitted, "but there are rumors that the shortage of iron is an Amnish plot in preparation for war with Baldur's Gate. If war breaks out along the coast it is in the interest of mine people to be told when we return from our dajemma."

"I suppose," Ashura said. She repeated the story she had found herself retelling several times over the past few days about the orc in the Nashkel mines with his army of kobolds and iron corroding potions.

"He was a priest of Cyric too," Imoen interjected, returning from her 'unicorn' ride. "Nasty fellow. He had an army of skeletons and stuff. Oh, I'm Imoen by the way."

"Half-orcs and worshippers of the Prince of Lies art plentiful in Amn," Dynaheir noted. "And though Nashkel art officially an Amnish town it would not be beneath some of their nobles to poison the iron. They are a duplicitous lot down there. Or so I have heard."

"I've no idea," Ashura admitted. "And honestly I've had enough intrigue. There was a Greycloak agent that we rescued from the orc's chamber deep in the mines. Named Xana…something. One of those long elven names with way too many vowels. He said he'd continue investigating the orc's 'true masters' up in Beregost, if you're really interested."

"And thou art not?" Dynaheir asked.

"Nope. No more secret societies or plots within plots if I can avoid them. We're thinking about hiring ourselves out as caravan guards once the fair's over."

"Yup," Imoen said with a devious smile. "We're just good honest mercenaries."

Dynaheir gave them a dubious frown. "We shall be passing through Beregost, methinks, though for other reasons. I've an interest in seeing Candlekeep."

"Oh!" Imoen squeaked. "We're-"

Ashura shot her a look.

"Well, we've been there. Nice place," Imoen muttered.

"The price of entry is rather steep," Ashura warned.

"Aye," Dynaheir said. "A rare and valuable book. Worry not."

A somber look crossed Minsc's face. "Boo will miss that book of Rashemi folktails. Our witch," he pointed at Dynaheir, "has been reading us a story every night and he does not know how he'll manage to sleep without them."

Dynaheir closed her eyes and placed a hand on her forehead.

"Who's Boo?" Imoen asked.

The witch muttered something in her language as Minsc smiled gleefully and held his arm out. A small brown-and-white rodent scurried out of his sleeve and sat in the palm of his hand. "This is Boo!" he announced proudly, "my stalwart animal companion and dearest friend!"

Imoen bent forward and peered. "A…mouse?"

"Heavens no!" Minsc roared and the little rodent ran in circles on his wide palm. "He is a miniature giant space hamster. The only one in existence. A prince among his kind!"

"Oh. A hamster," Imoen said as she reached out to pet the little guy with a fingertip. He scuttled away, back into Minsc's sleeve.

"A miniature giant space hamster," Minsc corrected. "I apologize for his shyness. He does warm up to people eventually."

Imoen smiled. "I'm sure he's a very polite young hamster."

"In any case," Dynaheir said with an obvious look of embarrassment on her face, "we need to move along. A good morn to you."

Ashura nodded as the pair turned and walked in the direction of one of the large tents. "And to you," she replied.

Once they were out of earshot Imoen noted: "I'm pretty sure that was just a hamster."

"I don't know," Ashura said with a bit of a grin. "Giant space hamsters do exist. And shrinking spells aren't unheard of."

"Giant space hamsters?"

"Yeah, I read about them in a bestiary."

Imoen shook her head. "You shouldn't believe everything you read in those."

"Well, they sound more believable than an owlbear."

"Exactly. I don't believe in those neither. Not until I see one for real. I mean an owlbear? Seriously? Next you'll be telling that crabrhinos and mooseeagles are real."

* * *

"I stand corrected," Imoen said with a wicked grin as she pointed to the wooden marquee near the outdoor stage. "Maybe they do have something here with thrones made of skulls and naked guys."

Ashura gave her friend an incredulous look after glancing at the playbill. "A post-eveningfeast showing of _A Waltz with Brigands_? I thought they only showed that play in brothels. No way they haven't cut a bunch of stuff out."

"Ha. Like the whole scene at the docks? We'll just have to see for ourselves eh?" She giggled. "Remember when we found those books in the locked room under the Hall of History? Dreppin blushed so hard when we showed him. I think he especially liked that manual with all the illustrations."

"Looks like we're in time for the midday show at least. _Elminster in the Abyss_."

"See," Imoen said, "that doesn't sound very family friendly either. Wanna check it out?"

"Of course," Ashura replied with a smile. They handed two silver tarans to a young man at the gate to the little outdoor theater and a second man walked them to some wooden bleachers in front of the stage.

A little bit later half-a-dozen stage hands in black bodysuits were climbing around arranging props and soon the play began. It told the story of how Elminster, the mythic "Sage of Shadowdale" (played by a fairly young looking actor in a heavy white beard and wig,) became trapped in the Abyss and how his lover (one of the legendary Seven Sisters,) mounted a rescue into the underworld itself.

For a small country production it seemed quite lavish, with constantly moving wooden backgrounds and elaborate demon costumes. When it was over the audience gave a standing ovation.

"What did ya think?" Imoen asked.

"A little silly to be honest," Ashura replied. "Especially towards the end. I got tired of how they solved everything with bigger and bigger bursts of magic."

"Ya. They say some of the earlier Elminster plays are better, with a lot more of him being clever. That's how real mages do it." She waved her fingers. "Prestidigitation!" A small ruby ring appeared in the palm of her hand, and then vanished when she briefly waved her other hand over it. Ashura didn't bother asking where it came from. "But I liked it anyway," Imoen added.

Ashura gently boxed Imoen's shoulder. "Hey, so did I! Especially the part with Demogorgon."

"Nah, the best part was Graz'zt. That was quite a costume! Or lack thereof."

Ahead of them a man in extravagant looking hooded red robes was talking to several fairgoers. Looking up from the crowd he spotted Imoen and Ashura and began to walk his way, eyes fixed upon them. Ashura found her hand hovering over her sword-hilt, memories of assassins fresh in her mind.

The man was tall, his robe hooded, and when he noticed Ashura's ready hands he rolled his eyes and made a placating gesture with an open palm. He wore a gaudy circlet beneath the hood and appeared to be bald underneath. There was a permanent smirk on his face covered by a trimmed goatee and an elaborate, braided moustache.

"I know you barbarians love nothing more than to display your swords and compare their size," the man in red said with a thick accent, "but there's no need. I merely have a question, then I shall be on my way (and none too soon. No doubt standing here close to your stench will test my constitution.)"

"Hey!" Ashura objected. "I bathed last night."

"Yeah," Imoen added. "You're Thayan right? Aren't you one of those super 'civilized' peoples who bathe about once a season and cover it up with heaps of perfume the rest of the time?"

The man in red's eyes widened very briefly in surprise. "You know a little of the lands of the east. Quite surprising. Of course your knowledge of my culture's advanced hygienic practices is sorely lacking. Are you some sort of book-learned barbarians?"

"You could say that," Ashura said. "Was that your question?"

Rolling his eyes the man replied: "No, just idle chatter. If you know of my people you may know that we wizards of Thay travel far and wide to sell magical goods, bringing civilization to far flung lands, one might say. My name is Edwin Odesseiron and I am such a wizard and merchant. I recently sold some goods to a traveling Rashemi witch. A magic wand, if you really must know. Unfortunately it has come to my attention that the item is flawed. I seek to track the witch down and give her a refund before she has reason to use the wand. The good reputation of we Red Wizards hangs in the very balance."

"Very dramatic," Ashura stated dryly.

"Indeed. So, have you seen the Rashemi witch? She has rather dark skin and wears hoop earrings and large brass rings about her neck. Travels with a big burly ape of a man with a bald head and tattoos. Her bodyguard I believe."

"Yeah," Ashura said. "We talked with them a few hours ago. They might still be around the fair."

"I am fairly certain that they have left. But perchance did they tell you where they were heading?"

"I think they were going north," Ashura said. "To Beregost and then to Candlekeep."

"Most helpful," Edwin said with a slight nod of his head. "And you were correct. You don't smell nearly so bad as these other barbarians." With that he turned and made his way through the crowd once again, already heading north.

"Thanks I guess," Ashura mumbled.

"The good reputation of the Red Wizards of Thay?" Imoen mused dubiously. "I thought they were all backstabbing assholes. That's what the books say at least."

Ashura shrugged. "They say that about all wizards. Not that that guy wasn't an asshole."

* * *

It was early afternoon when the gnomish barker in bright green clothes caught their attention. He was standing on a dirt path that led to a series of smaller tents, a bit away from most of the bustling carnival stalls and gambling pavilions. Behind the gnome stood a life-sized statue of a human woman, and his hands were waving wildly at every passerby.

"Come and see the amazing Stone Maiden," the gnome shouted. "A wonder of Nashkel and longtime curiosity! Long ago on this very spot this mysterious woman was turned to stone, perhaps by a gorgon or in a duel with a sorcerer! It was thought that her mystery was lost to time, but not today! For I have right here," he dramatically pulled a rolled up parchment from his breast pocket, "a scroll that restores stone to flesh! And for the meager price of five hundred danters it can be yours!"

The gnome aggressively waved the scroll at passersby, most ignoring him. "You can be the first to learn the true nature of the Stone Maiden and receive her gratitude. Could she be the long lost princess of the north? A powerful sorceress who will grant you a boon for freeing her? You can't afford not to know!"

"I think we should do it!" Imoen whispered enthusiastically to Ashura.

"Um, come on Ims, it's obviously a scam," Ashura whispered back as she approached the statue for a closer look.

Imoen shook her head. "Look at her pose," she said. "And for that matter look at her. She doesn't look remotely like any artist's model."

_ Hm. _ Imoen had a point. The statue was nude but had a broad, blocky body that could hardly be called statuesque. It was roughly as tall as Ashura, muscular in a stocky sort of way with larger breasts, wider hips and a rounder belly than she had. The statue's face was not that of a young woman, though it seemed more weather-worn than truly elderly.

And as Imoen had said the statue's pose was very odd: the body was a bit hunched, eyes wide with shock or panic, and its left arm was raised and curved before it, as if the woman depicted was hoisting an imaginary shield. Bending down Ashura ran her fingers through the dirt and grass at the statue's feet. There were tiny flecks here and there of rusted metal. That could be the remains of the woman's armor, if the wild petrifaction theory were true. Or it could be anything.

She stood and brushed her fingers along the granite surface of the statue. Very smooth, with little bumps here and there that appeared to be moles and even a few light scars. "Well, the artist was certainly going for realism. And an unusual look."

"Bah," Imoen protested. "What he was going for was a petrified woman. Look at the fear in her eyes. The awkward stance, like she was just caught off-guard. Come on! I'm sure about this."

Ashura began to say something about it being a lot of their funds, but Imoen was giving her a mischievous look that she had seen many times before. Shrugging slightly Ashura walked over to the gnome and began to haggle. He refused to budge on the price but did eventually agree to take some of the payment in midgrade gems along with a stack of three hundred gold coins. They made their exchange and he happily pocketed the coin while she handed the scroll over to Imoen.

"If this doesn't work…." Ashura growled at the gnome, tapping the hilt of one of a sword.

He gave her a bright, toothy smile. "Worry not." The grinning quickly turned to fidgeting and his eyes roamed about, giving her the impression that he was looking for the best path of escape. _Great._

After unfurling the scroll Imoen gave it a cursory glance and nodded. "Seems legitimate," she announced, promptly turning towards the statue. "One stone-to-flesh coming up. _Creunis olva tugar marnos sespina…"_

While Imoen droned her way through the incantation Ashura noticed movement at the edge of her vision. Quick as a cat she turned and snatched the gnome by his collar before he was out of reach, yanking him towards the statue.

"Hey!" he whined. "I was just-"

"Stuff it!" she snarled.

The draconic runes on the scroll had begun to glow a faint green, one letter after the next, and a light of the same color had sprouted from the heart of the statue, slowly growing. As Imoen raced through the incantation now the light expanded until it briefly covered the entire page and the full surface of the statue.

With a whoosh the parchment disintegrated between Imoen's fingers. At the same time there was a sharp crack and the light that had covered the statue went out. What had been a still figure of smooth granite was now a woman with lightly tanned skin and golden-blonde hair. She stumbled and blinked several times, her left arm still pantomiming like she holding a shield. Gradually her arm fell to her side. Next she looked around with confusion in her eyes.

Then she looked down. Her lips formed a large O and a gasp of shock and embarrassment left them before her arms shot out; one across her chest and the other attempting to cover her loins.

"Oh!" Imoen squeaked. "Sorry." She rushed forward and unfastened her cloak, standing on her toes a bit to throw the garment over the taller woman's shoulders.

The blonde woman nodded slightly in thanks and wrapped the cloak around herself, then looked up at the fair and forest around her. When the confusion left her face it was replaced by a content smile. "Ah," she said in the thick accent of Ruathym and the Norheim Isles, "tis good to be free again."

"Gods be good!" the gnome gasped as Ashura let go of his collar. "It actually worked. Urm…I mean…"

The woman with the northern accent cast her eyes upon the gnome. "It worked?" she asked. "So you were the one who found a key to my stony prison? If so I am very much in thy debt."

Imoen giggled. "You could say he had the key. Of course he was charging a _huge_ heap of gold for it."

The northerner's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You charged a fee for the magic to free me? You…you _profited_ from my curse?!" She raised a hand, forgetting her modesty for the moment as the cloak slipped down a little. There was an electric crackle in the air as energy extended from her palm and a hammer formed of flowing blue magic popped into existence in her hand. The gnome cowered and covered his head as the northerner stomped towards him.

"Miss," the gnome stammered, "please. I never would have left you in the stone. I…I…"

She held the crackling weapon aloft.

Imoen's hand shot up and grasped the woman's wrist. She caught a cold glare from the northerner and held her gaze. "Does it really matter?" Imoen asked. "You're free now."

The woman's eyes softened a bit and after a time she nodded. She shot the gnome another glare and he turned and ran as fast as his little legs could take him. "That's right!" the woman shouted after him. "Flee while you can you little rat! Before I change my mind." The magical hammer winked out of existence and Imoen let go, allowing the woman to pull the cloak up and wrap it tightly once more.

"I should be more grateful," the northerner said, turning to Imoen once again. "I thank you for my freedom and owe you a great debt, especially now that I know you paid in coin for it."

"No worries," Imoen replied. "I'm just glad to see a day go by without bloodshed. We have a nice streak going."

"I am Branwen Yuriksdater, by the way," the blonde woman said with a slight inclination of her head, "a Warpriestess of Tempus from the Isle of Seawolf. I have seen many a campaign, and would be happy to join your war-party to repay my debt if you will have me."

Ashura chuckled. "It's not much of a war-party at the moment but I suppose we could use your help."

"Yup," Imoen said. "We can at least help you get used to the world of the non-stony. How long were you petrified for anyway?"

"That," Branwen noted, "is a very good question. By your manner of dress and speech I am guessing it has been quite some time. Not to mention," she glanced around, "that when last I saw this place it was an open battlefield."

"Well," Ashura said, "it's thirteen sixty-eight."

Branwen gave her a blank look.

"The year. Uh, thirteen sixty-eight by Dale Reckoning."

Branwen shrugged slightly.

"It's the Year of the Banner, if you go by the prophecies of and Augathra the Mad."

Branwen shook her head.

"Oh boy."

"So when exactly where you petrified?" Imoen asked.

"By the manner my people reckon time," Branwen said, "it was the fifty-ninth year since the crowning of the first Iron King, but I doubt that means anything beyond the Northeim Isles." Now it was Imoen and Ashura's turn to give blank looks. "When I came to these lands the people I met reckoned time by the coronation of some lord in Waterdeep. I believe they called it the…two-hundred and twenty-ninth year? Something like that."

Imoen snapped her fingers. "Oh! Northreckoning. Ahghairon was coronated in ten third-two D.R. So that was…" She tapped her fingers in the air, doing the math in her head. "Twelve sixty-one D.R. So uh…you were a statue for a hundred and five years. Ouch!"

"I see," Branwen said with a solemn nod. "Well, when I set out from the isle I did not intend to return. Still…knowing there is no one to return to is unsettling."

"Sorry."

"No matter."

"So uh…we probably aught to find you some clothes. Shouldn't be much of a problem, I think there's several tailors around here hawking their wares. There's also a couple of armor venders."

Ashura frowned at Imoen. "Um, we've already spent-" she began but was cut off when the redhead gently placed a bag that clinked with the sound of coins and jewelry into her hand. "Oh, guess we can afford some armor." To Imoen she whispered: "I never even saw you get close to the gnome? How in the world did you..?"

"Told ya before," Imoen teased. "If you didn't see it means I did a good job."

"Perhaps I can assist in the purchasing," Branwen said, walking over to the spot she had occupied for over a century. "I would hate to feel that I owe still more than I already do." Careful to keep the cloak tightly wrapped about her she got on her knees and began to sift through the dirt with her fingers. After a few minutes she pulled something from the ground that gleamed. "Tis just as I had hoped!"

"Buried treasure?" Imoen asked.

"Not exactly. Tis simply that no one thought to dig beneath my feet where my old coinpurse fell. No doubt the coinage is of a different make than what you use here and now but gold is gold, in any age."

Imoen giggled. "Quite true."

After collecting a few coins from the dirt Branwen gave a slight "Ah ha!" and pulled up something else. It was a small, dirt-caked piece of jewelry. Eager swipes of the northerner's fingers knocked the grime away, revealing a thin, circular piece of gold that curved around a greenstone the size and shape of a large pebble.

"Now I just need a string to tie this about my neck," Branwen said happily.

Imoen eyed the amulet. "Oh, is it magical?" she asked.

The northerner shook her head. "Just a reminder of home. Far across the sea." She glanced at the small crowd of onlookers that had gathered around them and the bustling carnival beyond, and added: "And very long ago."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As some may have noticed I changed Branwen's backstory significantly. Ever since I first played Baldur's Gate I really liked the idea the guy selling the scroll suggested that the statue was ancient and mysterious. I was disappointed when I learned that she had been petrified for maybe a week, and by some guy you bump into as part of the main quest. I don't think her being older significantly changes the character: an exiled warpriest searching for battle and waiting for a good day to die.
> 
> Also I wanted to leave it up in the air whether or not Elminster actually exists in this story/version of the Realms, so he's appearing in stories and legends instead of dropping in to give cryptic exposition.


	11. "I Am Death Come for Thee..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the carnival ends on an explosive note

_ "Bereth: But is not the theater a timeless, universal thing? _

_ Helot _ _ : Not quite. That which we do to entertain changes with the roll of the years and the whims of fashion. The sort of tragedy in style today will be deemed too depressing when more dreary times arrive. Laughter is universal but that which elicits it changes from one generation to the next. Even sex appeal is no sure bet, for that which titillates in one time and place will be deemed too vulgar later and then too safe and facile in yet another age. Though there is one constant all audiences crave and that we players must deliver. _

_ Bereth _ _ : And what is that? _

_ Helot _ _ : That we die. To bring tears, cheers or even laughter, through one age to the next, we players die in droves for their amusement." _

-Raelis Shae, _The Pit Fiend's Wager_ , Act III Scene IV

* * *

"Now this looks promising," Imoen exclaimed as she pointed at the colorful sign by one of the tents.

"' _Bentha Trasis, Herbalist and Fortune Teller_ '?" Ashura read aloud. "Seriously?"

"You don't want to hear yer fortune?"

"Not particularly. Either she'll be honest and tell me something depressing or it'll be a load of goblin shit about handsome princes or whatever."

"Aw," Imoen pouted. "Who says some handsome young man isn't about to appear and sweep you off your feet? I think you're due. Maybe he'll be a dashing bard with a deep, sonorous voice!"

Ashura rolled her eyes.

"You're being a bufflehead," Imoen said with a waggle of her forefinger.

"I know," Ashura admitted. "I'm just a little tired." They had been indulging Imoen for the past two days, first by playing dress-up-dolly with Branwen and then by slowly touring the carnival from one end to the other. Ashura felt like she had sampled every kind of confection the Amnish could dream up. She had also lost nearly two gold pieces on a knife-throwing game (damned weighted weapons!) and far more than she wanted to think about in the gambling tents. Either Lady Tymora had not been kind of Beshaba was really pissed about her dead servants. The day before their faces had been painted with vivid tiger patterns (the markings had since faded and washed away,) and today Imoen and Ashura sported a fresh coat of gloss and paint on their finger and toenails (a matching shade of purple.) Imoen had tried her best to get Branwen to join in the manicurist's tent but the northerner had been adamantly against it.

In addition to the heavy stomach and lighter purse Ashura's head still felt a bit tender after _way_ too much spiced ale and mead the night before. Once night fell and the families departed the carnival got a little seedier, with drinks flowing, whores making their rounds, provocative song and dance spilling from the flaps of the pleasure tents, and the pungent scent of black lotus and hemp resin wafting through the air. Ashura had been tempted to give the lotus dens a try but figured that getting sleepy-drugged when there's a bounty on your head was a bad idea. In retrospect getting fall-on-your-face drunk hadn't been any smarter, but she blamed Branwen for that. The woman could throw back mead like it was water. At least they hadn't woken up with the matching tattoos Imoen had joked that they should get.

Over the course of the touring and revelry Branwen had gradually told them her story; that she had left her homeland in self-imposed exile because her countrymen did not allow women to be priests of Tempus, and that she had been petrified in some sort of dispute with her mercenary company over honor. The way she told it the company had found itself on the losing side of a battle and decided to change sides. When she refused to go along with the plan one of the wizards took her out of the equation with a spell. He had probably not meant any meaning by it but she took the petrifaction as a personal insult, as it had denied her an honorable death on the field a century ago.

"And anyways," Imoen was saying, "madam Benthra seems to have yer concerns about fortune tellers covered." She pointed at some tiny script at the bottom of the sign that read:

_ All predictions only show the most likely future out of a sea of possibilities. All fates are malleable. No refunds! _

"I wonder if fate really is malleable or if that's just something diviners say to give themselves wiggle room," Ashura pondered. She gestured towards the tent flaps. "Well, let's give it a try."

Imoen skipped ahead into the fortune teller's tent and Branwen quietly followed.

It was at about that moment that a perfectly good afternoon went straight to the Hells.

The silent tension inside was palpable. It hit Ashura in the face like a foul smell as she entered, and she thought of turning and retreating but her companions had already walked ahead of her. At the far side of the round chamber a middle aged woman stood with her back pressed against a bookcase, terror in her eyes. A man with streaks of grey in his dark hair stood in front of her, his hand outstretched, and wisps of electricity danced between his fingers.

Looking over at the newcomers the woman managed to stutter out the words: "H-help me, please! He's mad!"

The man silently scowled, eyes shifting back and forth between the three companions and the woman.

"Um," Ashura mumbled, "we were just on our way…"

The air crackled beside her as a hammer formed of magical force came into being in Branwen's hand. "Release her immediately!" the northerner snarled.

The man shook his head slightly and turned to fully face the terrified woman once more. He barked out a single word and the electricity in his hand congealed into a ball that he hurled with a flick of his wrist. It crossed the space between them in an instant and struck her in the chest with a sharp crack, briefly lighting the room and sending spasms through her body.

She kicked and writhed for a moment, arms and legs flailing, then as the lightning-flash faded her body went limp and she slid down the bookshelf. Her eyes were empty and wide open, smoke rising from the edges of her mouth, and the foul smell of singed hair filled the tent.

"Can we go just one day without someone getting brutally killed in front of us?" Imoen complained as she averted her eyes.

Turning towards them the man shook his head solemnly. "I was hoping the threat of finishing that spell would convince her to give me a refund," he said. "But you forced my hand."

"Well they say all fates are malleable-" Ashura began.

"Don't give me that crap!" the man cut her off. "That bitch's advice cost me a fortune!"

Ashura waved a placating hand. "Sorry," she said. "Sorry. Look, we don't mean to-"

Branwen stomped forward and raised her hammer menacingly. "Oh," she bellowed, "we most certainly do mean to. That woman will be the last victim of your foul sorceries!"

The mage shrugged and waved a hand. " _Narris sa'pel_." With his words there was a shimmer on Ashura's periphery and when she turned she saw that the tent flap had vanished and been replaced by an unbroken wall of canvas. "I do not intend to leave any witnesses anyway."

_ No backing out now. _ Ashura drew one sword after the other and circled away from Branwen, trying to flank the man. He managed to spit out yet another spell before they could reach him and split into five identical versions of himself. _Ugh. That spell again._

Lashing out at the first copy of the mage she could reach Ashura wasn't surprised to contact nothing but empty air as the image winked out. All four remaining men were waving their arms in synch, and to Ashura's horror she recognized some of the words and the golden energy that was gathering between the four sets of hands.

"Branwen!" she shouted. "It's a fear spell!"

The priestess nodded and closed her eyes, a serene look on her face. "Foehammer…" she chanted out, the rest of the words coming in the language of the Norheim Isles. Ashura thought she heard drums and battlesong somewhere far, far away and felt a surge of warmth fill her chest. It strengthened and gave her a sort of blind certainty that pushed everything else aside. When the cold waves of the mage's spell hit her the warmth seemed to burn it away.

The mage scowled and his hands drew close together. Something green and hissing began to form between them as he chanted out the words of his next incantation.

At the center of the room beside the herbalist's cauldron Imoen popped up into view and hefted a bucket up with all her strength. From the bucket a wave of liquid flew towards the roof of the tent and rained down on all four duplicates of the mage at once. Each version cringed slightly as the water hit their faces and shoulders, but three of them wavered slightly before reforming.

_ There he is! _

Ashura charged but Branwen was closer, and with an electric crackle her hammer slammed into man's stomach, overwhelming whatever magical protections he had and forcing him to bend over and fall to his knees. Without pause the priestess pulled the hammer up and then slammed it down, splitting the man's skull with a wet thunk. Imoen cringed and turned away.

As Branwen straightened and took a breath Ashura noticed a content smile on her face, along with a few droplets of blood. "Tis good to take part in righteous battle once more," the priestess said.

"Uh…" Ashura mumbled. "Yeah. I guess. We probably aught to get out of here before the guards show up." She was starting to have her doubts about this new companion. A priestess of the god of war from the land of berserkers. Of _course_ she was going to throw herself into battle whenever there was the slightest excuse.

The tent flap was still gone but with some fumbling against the wall they found the gap hidden beneath the illusion and pushed their way through into the light. Thankfully the brief commotion they had caused hadn't drawn any attention and they managed to slip into the crowd. It probably helped that there were always at least two magic shows going on at the fair, and the crackle of the mage's electrical spell was nothing compared to the sound of Oopah the Exploding Ogre.

After they had put some distance between themselves and the fortune teller's tent Branwen asked: "What was that liquid you used on the sorcerer? Something to disrupt illusions?"

"The universal solvent," Imoen said with a grin. After that just got her a blank look she added: "Water. A bucket the witch probably used for brewing potions. I'm just glad it worked." Once they had reached the far side of the fair Imoen pulled two small, mismatched books bound in leather from her pockets. "At least it wasn't a total wash," she said. "(Hehe. Get it?)"

"Uh huh," Ashura said. "Are those…spellbooks?"

"Yup. Between these and Tarnesh's I should be able to pick up a few useful spells."

Ashura gave her friend a puzzled look before she grinned and snapped her fingers. "Oh! I see how you picked that gnome's pocket without even getting near him! You've been studying magic again haven't you Ims? Like you did before you started sleeping through Jessup's lectures."

"Pfft. Imoen the Great will never reveal how she does her tricks!"

* * *

Four different shades of fire streaked into the night sky and burst into showers of sparks. The _pop-pop-pop_ made by the lightshow echoed across the clearing, some of the wider explosions hanging in the air for some time; spiraling galaxies of color that slowly dissipated as their stars fell. It was the last night of the Nashkel Spring Fair and the fireworks show was in full swing.

A green fireburst lit Imoen's face. "Now," the redhead began, her eyes gleaming with delight, "it could be even more spectacular if they'd throw some magic up there along with this. Maybe a flying dragon illusion or something."

"Bah," Ashura responded with a dismissive wave of her tin cup, making what was left of the spiced ale slosh a bit. They were reclining on some wooden stands at a sparsely peopled corner of the field. "We've had plenty of magic shows. It's nice to see the acolytes of Gond and the alchemists have a chance to shine."

"Ya, I spose," Imoen said, raising her own cup and taking a tiny sip. "I just think everything could be improved with a dragon or two."

Branwen was somewhere nearby and no doubt enjoying the show, probably with one or more of her admirers. Since being awakened from the stone she had become a bit of a local celebrity. Many of the people of Nashkel had grown up hearing of the Stone Maiden or making visits to her grove for picnics, parties and midnight meetings. They had always assumed she was just a strange statue and useful landmark, so seeing her come to life had caused quite a stir around town.

Once word had gotten around she'd been crowded by locals asking her questions and listening intently to her tales of Norheim and days gone by. It didn't escape Ashura and Imoen's notice that most of the followers were young men. Doubtless the Stone Maiden had been the first impression a lot of them had gotten of what a naked woman looks like and many of them still harbored a bit of a crush. It was hard to tell if Branwen was aware of this, but for the moment she just seemed to enjoy the endless series of men who were happy to buy her mead and more tickets for the Great Gazib's show.

The lilting song of a lute nearby drew Ashura's attention away from the lightshow. Turning she saw a man approach with ebon hair pulled back into a tight knot and black clothes made livelier by bright green piping. There was a calm grin on his face as he slowly plucked the strings of his instrument. "Ladies," the man said in greeting as he inclined his head slightly and strummed out a slow, winding song.

Ashura narrowed her eyes and sat up straight. There was something off about the man. Something that made the hair on the back of her neck bristle.

"Oh, hi," Imoen said with a smile. "I remember you. You played uh…Vido in the production of _A Waltz with Brigands_ right? And Graz'zt in _Elminster in the Abyss_. You look different without the greasepaint. And the codpiece." She giggled.

The minstrel nodded. "Indeed I did. I am Nimbul, of the Dale Wind Troubadours. Though tonight I play a different role."

Ashura's hand found the hilt of her right-hand sword. She had felt the uneasiness when the man first set foot on stage, though at the time she had written it off to the part he was playing. Uneasiness and an implacable familiarity.

"That's good to know," Imoen said, "since Vido was kind of an ass. A handsome one though." She followed up with a wink.

"You flatter me," Nimbul said, "though twould flatter me more if you allowed me to serenade you with a song or two. You can determine the price of my performance when I am finished."

"Oh!" Imoen squealed. "Of course. Serenade away!"

With a sly smile and a nod the minstrel began to pluck the strings of his lute once more. The tune was slow and meandering, and when he finally began to sing his voice was deep. The lyrics told of a woman glimpsed across spring fields, her eyes like pale sapphires and ruby lips always laughing; her beauty awe inspiring to the narrator.

Leaning forward Ashura continued to wearily watch the bard. The fireworks had died away for the moment and in the dim light of distant bonfires his face looked gaunt and angular, sharp cheekbones casting deep shadows. His fingers gently strummed the lute but his slender arms were all sinew. Strong, lithe and dangerous. And his large brown eyes were fixed on her. Beyond a few sidelong glances at Imoen they had been focused on her alone from the moment he appeared.

The ballad had moved from spring flowers to balmy summer days and cool trickling brooks. The narrator and the woman in the field had become lovers, meeting beneath the moon for midnight trysts and playing together in steaming summer rains.

Something seemed to shimmer at the corners of the minstrel's eyes, a rainbow-pattern that slithered round and round. Ashura found herself following the pulses of color and leaning closer. She couldn't look away.

The song had become melancholy as the first leaves of autumn turned and the singer began to lament that all beauty must wither away. He was guiding his lover now to the field where they had first met, gently laying her on a bed of long-wilted flowers.

_"And as my hand caressed your neck_  
_A thought occurred to me,_  
_How content you'd be to lay right here_  
_My eternal beauty…"_

Ashura tried to avert her eyes but she couldn't turn from the shimmering pattern. Her whole world had shrunk down to those massive shimmering pools of brown, black and rainbow, and that voice with its promise of rest in ever-blooming fields. At the very corner of her vision she noticed something metallic gleam, half-hidden by the neck of the lute.

_"Fear not my love_  
_The dreamless sleep_  
_In fields of flowers cold…"_

She was being charmed again! Realization quickly turned to anger. To boiling, indignant _rage_. There was a crackle in the air followed by the scream of fresh fireworks soaring.

_ "…for I am death come for thee…" _

High above the sky lit up in blazes of red and gold.

Ashura never found out what the bard would have rhymed with 'cold.' Instead of listening she launched herself off the wooden seat with both hands and slammed her foot against Nimbul's lute, sending him reeling and smashing the instrument with a sour note. As the wood and strings fell away a dagger was revealed beneath. Before it could strike Ashura's right-hand sword flew from its sheath and pointed at the bard, forcing him to glide back further.

"So you'll dance this way instead," Nimbul noted with a smug grin on his face. "I offered you peace and ease, but a violent end works as well."

"Wha-what's going on?" Imoen stammered somewhere beside Ashura.

With a flick of his free hand and the utterance of a single arcane word Nimble sent a bolt of golden energy hurling towards Imoen. It struck with a flash and her muscles locked into place, a look of shock frozen on her face.

Ashura charged as the spell hit but Nimbul managed to weave and hop away from her blades before drawing a short sword of his own. Sword and dueling-dagger in hand he struck back and steel rang against steel.

The minstrel proved a frustratingly skilled fencer, managing at one point to trap Ashura's blades and nearly drive his dagger into her neck before she pushed past him. She caught a light slash for her trouble, though her chainmail blocked it well enough. When she whirled back towards him she upped the tempo and drove her blades against his with all the fury she could find. She had him backing up a few steps but then he changed the game entirely with a few strange words: " _Umbriel vistias quiel_."

In a flicker Nimbul vanished and Ashura's double-slash met with air as she probed for her foe. She took a step back and stood still, swords at either side. He was invisible. Had to be. She guessed that he would try to flank her next but she remained still. If she moved she could easily just be offering him her back for a clean stab.

Above the sky lit up again in a series of green flashes, illuminating the battlefield. She was standing in the wide corral of silty dirt used for animal shows, jousts and melees. The earth was loose, covered by countless tracks and for the moment lit. Ashura's eyes swept across the ground, desperately searching for any sign of movement in the sand. She began to pivot very slowly.

The light was fading now. He'd wait for it to go out, then strike. Or he was already somewhere safely out of her line of sight and any moment the sword would plunge into her back.

_ Can't think like that. Movement. Come on! Any movement. _

The green glow was almost dead when another thunderous _crack-boom_ sounded above and the field was lit by bright orange. At the same time to her left and dangerously close Ashura saw the sand stir. She turned, slowly, slightly. Head down, eyes wide, tracking the movement but never looking directly. _Striking range now._ Her heart was in her throat.

Whirling and slashing fast Ashura felt her left sword clang and scrape against invisible steel. A wavy shimmer followed and Nimbul appeared at her left flank. His sword had caught hers defensively. She turned and stabbed her right sword under her raised arm, forcing the assassin to hop back before he could plant his knife in her back.

Once again Nimbul backed up as Ashura slashed and stabbed, probing for a gap in his guard. His face was blank, body turned to the side as she hammered away at his sword and wide-hilted fencing dagger. The assassin just kept backing away, on the defense, even when they reached a set of wooden stands a few paces from the sand. It was the tallest of the bleachers that stood in a rough semicircle facing the field and the empty stage, a full twelve rows tall.

Without a break or a glance back Nimbul hopped up and over the first row of seats as the small crowd scattered before him, some screaming. The assassin leapt over another set of benches, then another, higher and higher. Maybe he was seeking an advantage in higher ground? Or trying to trip her up on the obstacles. Or both. His weapons didn't have the reach to really sweep down and endanger her but the damn benches protected his legs from her swords as she followed and slashed.

Another flight and another, swords ringing. Balancing on the narrow wooden bench Ashura couldn't lunge, forcing her to favor indecisive attacks. She expected some kind of low bending stab from her opponent or another sort of all-or-nothing attack that would take advantage of the height, but he just kept batting her swords away and hopping back. Did he want her to try and knock him off the back of the stands?

Nimbul didn't stop when he leapt his way onto the final row of seats. Instead her barked out the words: " _Crey lavisi_ ," and pushed off the top of the stands, flying into the open air beyond. There was a faint white shimmer around the soles of his boots as he gently floated down, leaving Ashura hesitating at the top. She could jump and hit him if she did it right now but-

With a flick of his wrist Nimbul threw his dueling dagger and Ashura dodged to the side, feeling the steel whistle past her face. The assassin's hand shot to his belt after the throw, yanking out a thin, ornate rod painted a flaming orange and carved in the shape of a serpent. _A wand!_ His mouth turned up into a sneer as he spoke a single unintelligible word.

Orange flames bloomed at the tip of the wand and flew with a hiss as Ashura desperately dove to the side. She felt the heat before it even struck the top seat and filled her vision with a golden sunburst. Her leap took her off the stands and she was free-falling when the wave of searing flames struck her.

Overwhelming heat. Her nerves screamed. Wind rushed by her ears as the earth rose to meet her and struck the air from her lunges, replacing it with pins and needles. Long, desperate gulps of air followed. The needles were replaced by a sharp stabbing in her right side. She tried to open her eyes but everything was a burning blur.

There was still intense heat on her back, against her cheek and at her right arm. _Oh gods! Am I on fire?_ It was agony to move but she forced herself, rolling onto her back and rocking as she tried to smother the flames from her cloak. Frantically she patted out her shoulder, choking on the smoke.

A black and green smear floated down to the ground a few paces away. Ashura forced herself to focus. Nimbul lazily approached, his sword raised. Flames illuminated his gaunt face, his smirking eyes, and trails of embers flew in the space between the two. Her right sword was nearby and visible but the left weapon had flown from her hand and fallen gods know where.

Glaring at the assassin Ashura clenched her fist and ghostly light crackled there, making Nimbul stop and raise an eyebrow. With a raspy snarl she threw the gathered energy, leaving an umbilical trail of blue-white light between her hand and the assassin's chest where it struck. His life-force thumped through the trail to her hand, and she drank as deeply as the brief flash of power would allow her.

Comforting warmth flooded her chest and limbs. The pain at her side subsided and she felt something shift and grow whole there. She had obviously broken a few ribs in the fall. Reaching out she grasped her sword and wobbled her way to her feet while Nimbul stumbled backwards, scowling and shaking his head.

The scowl on the assassin's face was quickly replaced by a wolfish grin. He flicked his free hand forward and ghost-light exactly like what Ashura had wielded appeared in his palm. The cold fire shot forward and struck, burrowing deep and taking back what she had stolen. Ashura felt the warmth leave, replaced by numbing ice. Her wounds did not return but her strength fled and she dropped to her knees.

"You are not the only one who can pull the very life from your enemy and drink it," Nimbul stated with as he stepped closer.

"You…you're like me aren't you?" Ashura rasped out. "I could sense it."

The assassin gave the slightest of nods. "Like you and not. You don't even know do you?"

She shook her head weakly.

"We are both children of Death. But I will be His favored. Hold still now sister. I can make this quick and clean."

As he pointed his sword forward a look of surprise appeared on Nimbul's face and he reared his head back. Less than a heartbeat later an arrow hissed through the air and flew right past the assassin's nose.

They turned towards the source of the arrow: Imoen, carrying a bow she must have lifted from an archery display. The redhead already had another arrow knocked. As she let it fly Nimbul twisted his body to the side and the missile went past his shoulder by a finger's width if that.

The attack bought Ashura enough time to hobble to her feet, but she was in no condition to duel. With a shaky hand she felt at her belt. The bottle there hadn't broken with her fall. The last healing potion.

Flicking the stopper away with her thumb, Ashura brought the vial to her lips and drank the sticky-sweet liquid down with one long gulp. Warmth once again filled her body and her arms and legs straightened.

"You should still be held," Nimbul snarled at Imoen. She just knocked another arrow and fired. Once again the assassin casually dodged, as if he could sense the exact trajectory of the arrow before it flew and move just enough that it missed him.

There was a crackle in the air and something blue-white and glowing hurled towards Nimbul. He hopped to the side but the arm-sized object followed his movements, slamming into him and sending him spinning. After the strike the object rose slightly and hovered, buzzing in the air. It was a hammer made of force, the sort that Brawen kept conjuring.

Stepping from the shadow of the burning stands the warpriestess marched towards Nimbul, the scales of her armor clinking and her shield hefted. In her hand she held a warhammer made of wood and steel while her summoned weapon floated nearby. "Enough dirty tricks assassin!" Branwen shouted. "Face me in righteous battle!"

"No," Nimbul replied, following the word with a few more that Ashura didn't recognize and a rolling gesture of his hand.

Something dark shimmered in the grass beneath Branwen's boots and she began to slide, kicking frantically for purchase before her feet flew all the way out from under her. By then Ashura had managed to find her second sword and, praying to Talos that it gave her a little advantage she charged.

The assassin had his back to her. Maybe…but no, he whirled around and parried her first attack, nearly cutting through her guard and delivering a blow himself. She was forced to hop back and pivot a bit. They exchanged ringing slashes for a moment and again Nimbul backed up, fighting defensively. _It's his style,_ Ashura realized, _he's a good enough swordsman to keep the blades off of him, and he uses that to lead you into a trap._ What was the trap this time?

Nimbul ducked low under one of Imoen's arrows and as he shot back up he sang out some familiar words: " _Umbriel vistias quiel_." There was a red shimmer along with fainter rainbow hues as his form flickered and vanished.

_ Oh. Same trick again. _ Ashura guessed that he would move to her left and slashed out in that direction, but just hit emptiness. The ground here was all grass. Would it even stir enough under his invisible footsteps to be helpful?

A few paces away Branwen had carefully found her feet. She pressed her boots against the slippery grass as best she could and raised her shield and hammer high into the air. "I said enough dirty tricks," she bellowed. "Foehammer! _Gjore det usynlige sett!_ "

White light burst from the space between her upraised hands and covered the field like a lightning flash. Something wavered and moved behind Ashura and she turned just in time to sidestep Nimbul's attack and drive her own blade deep into his torso. The assassin let out a shocked gasp and flailed on her sword. Familiar ghostly light began to swell unsteadily at the palm of his hand.

"No!" Ashura shouted at the man's face as she stabbed her second sword directly into his chest. "Die! Now!" There was rage in his eyes. She twisted the sword and that rage subsided into spasms of pain, quick and fast and weaker and weaker. The light in Nimbul's palm died as the hand went limp. Finally his rolled back and he slumped to his knees, still stuck on the swords.

Ashura panted hard as she watched her foe slide down. It was over. Or not quite.

There was a strange glow on Nimbul's still face; pinpricks of fire here and there as if he was burning beneath the skin. Those flames quickly grew as tiny embers lifted from his face and hair, gathering into a cloud that billowed slowly away. Briefly his skull was revealed, then that too burned to nothing and the glowing cloud floated off.

Turning her head Ashura followed the burning dust, and even when it slipped off into the darkness she felt as if she could still see and follow. In her mind's eye she saw the cloud float along and then plunge down and down into the ground. Her vision plummeted with it, moving at impossible speeds through deep tunnels and into the bowls of the world where fires burned eternal. At some point she felt that her vision had passed through the veil and she and the burning cloud were falling towards somewhere far beyond this world.

Down and down she went, into a vast pit of bubbling magma and chocking smoke. The embers fell before her to the shimmering red and black surface and lit something hotter and brighter in the pit. There it was again: the grinning death's head and the halo of tears that surrounded it, lit up in the flames of Gehenna.

She was awakened from the strange trance by the sound of wood cracking followed by the collapse of the burning stands. There she was, back at the fair, swords in hand and the pile of Nimbul's clothes and weapons sitting at her feet. The fire had spread to another set of bleachers along with a nearby tent where the theater company kept its props.

Looking over Ashura saw expectant looks on Imoen and Branwen's faces. She shook herself slightly. "We'd better get the hells out of here," she said.

* * *

A mist-shrouded dawn was turning over into clear morning as the three companions descended along the northern road. Nashkel was long out of sight, and the tall pines of the mountain forest loomed all around them now. Hours ago they had briefly stopped at the manor house to gather their equipment then slipped out into the night. Ashura wasn't certain how many people had witnessed her battle with Nimbul or if she would be blamed for burning down a third of the Nashkel Fair, but she felt that they had overstayed their welcome anyway. Not to mention the threat of more assassins in a town where everyone knew her real name.

Despite the odd hours she didn't feel the least bit tired and no one else was complaining. Maybe adrenaline could carry them along the road. Or for most of the day at least. From there she supposed it would be on to Beregost, and then who knew.

As they rounded a corner a man came into view far up the road, tall and broad and swaying a bit as he walked. _A drunk perhaps?_ Drawing closer it became clear that there was blood running down his face and a nasty black gash along the top of his hairless head. Past the blood there was something else: a circular purple tattoo, and although it was torn and battered in many places Ashura recognized the man's lacquered armor.

"It's that Rashemi woman's bodyguard," Imoen exclaimed, rushing towards the injured man. "You're Minsc right? Are you okay?"

The tall man shook his head frantically, the loose greatsword at his back clinking against his armor. "Not okay. Not okay at all!" he bellowed. "They've taken my witch!"


	12. Damsels in Distress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Ashura channels Renegade Commander Shepard, and we learn that if Minsc is really addled, he's addled like a fox

_ "Every so often it turns out there was a very good reason for the damsel to be locked in a tower"  _ –Ren O' The Blade, _A Hero's Handbook_

* * *

"Here they went!" The ranger's voice boomed, his bald head bobbing dramatically as he pointed at the dirt. "An obvious path."

Ashura peered over his shoulder dubiously. All she saw were scattered twigs and scratches in the mud that could mean anything or nothing. When Minsc hopped away from the spot on the forest floor and gestured for the group to follow Ashura bent forward and gave the mud a closer look. _Maybe_ those rounded spots were from the pads of canine feet. Or they were indentations made my stones, or falling leaves, or rain. Or anything.

By the time she stood up Minsc was a good ten paces ahead and marching purposefully over muck and moss, head high and every step sure. He had a sort of relentless enthusiasm that had infected Imoen and Branwen. Those two had leapt at the chance to help this big proud warrior find his 'damsel in distress,' but Ashura had her doubts.

For one thing there had been no talk of payment before they agreed to this rescue mission and started trudging through the wilds of the Cloudpeaks. Later Ashura had asked if there would be a reward and Minsc had bellowed (he seemed to always bellow, no matter his mood,) that "Hero-ism is its own reward!" The man seemed to think of himself as a character out of a storybook and did everything he could to act the part. Imoen ate it up. She had been raised on the same sort of romantic stories Minsc seemed to live in. Branwen followed just as eagerly, at one point telling them that Minsc reminded her of 'men from a simpler time, when you went around righteously bashing orcs and didn't ask why.'

'Simpler' was definitely a word Ashura associated with the ranger. There was also the matter of the rodent. Most of the time you would not know it was there, but every so often the ranger's hamster would peak out from under his armor and Minsc would react as if the little creature was giving sage advice. Boo knew the best spots to make camp. Boo knew which direction the gnolls they were tracking had went. Boo knew where to find wild game. Infuriatingly enough Boo had been right thus far.

Soon they left the shade and began marching through a wide forest clearing, speckled here and there with budding saplings and ringed by thick brush. Yellow and red wildflowers and tall green growth parted for their boots. Then without warning near the center of the meadow Minsc halted and raised an arm. In a flash his greatsword was out of its sling and ready in his hand.

Within half a heartbeat Ashura had her swords out as well and Imoen readied an arrow, but they stopped at that, seeing nothing in the trees. "Boo smells goblin," Minsc announced.

A silky male voice responded from cover somewhere at the edge of the clearing: "Boo has a fine nose, whoever he is," it said. The man who owned the voice stepped out from behind a thick elm tree. He was square-jawed and handsome in a weathered sort of way, with close-cropped blonde hair that bordered on white and what seemed to be a permanent sneer on his face. A fine ringmail coat hung from his shoulders and a jeweled sword rested at his hip.

Imoen's arrow was instantly trained on the man but he just smiled at her and shook his head. "Best be careful with those arrows," he teased, "lest you injure your friend." With a gesture towards the bushes he called two tall, orange-skinned creatures out of hiding. They marched swiftly into the clearing, dragging something between them as they came. From their serrated ears and bat-like features they were obviously hobgoblins, though unlike the last band Ashura had seen these goblins wore cured animal skins instead of armor and their faces were crisscrossed with elaborate ritual scarring.

Between the hobgoblins a tall, thin man hobbled forward. His wrists were bound with tight ropes and he wore richly dyed red robes streaked here and there with mud. His teeth bit down angrily on a gag, his braided moustache hanging over the fabric, and the hood of his robe was peeled back to reveal a bald, tattooed head. There was something vaguely familiar about the man. Ashura peered for a moment before she remembered: this was the red wizard who had been asking after Minsc and Dynaheir, though he'd been stripped of all his jewelry. The man's name eluded her.

One of the hobgoblins produced a notched iron sword and held it to the Thayan's throat while the other stood back and brandished a longbow. Leaves rustled in the brush behind them; more bandits making their presence known. They were still hidden but Ashura got a glimpse of orange skin and deer hide. More hobgoblins.

"You recognize this man," the blonde warrior said. A statement, aimed on Ashura. "I could see it in your eyes. Don't deny it. You see we caught him less than an hour ago, and I don't think your following in his tracks was a coincidence. We pried a lot of jewelry off him too but," the bandit pointed at the Thayan's neck, "this necklace seems to be magically bound and won't budge. There's a raised symbol on the front of the amulet too. A signet of some noble house, I'm thinking. Maybe if we hacked his head off we could take the jewel and make some money, but I'm betting a ransom for a foreign noble would be worth a lot more."

Ashura rolled her shoulders in a slight shrug. "Maybe he's worth his weight in gold, I've no idea. But you're mistaken. I just met this guy at a spring fair a couple days back. And _no_ , we didn't kiss under the Greengrass pole. He just asked for directions."

"You're bluffing," the bandit said with a sneer.

"I don't even know this guy. Look-"

"Know him or not," Minsc shouted as he took a menacing step forward, "you will unhand him this instant, villain!"

_ Oh boy. _

The merchant was doing his best to stay very, very still as his captor pressed the sword against his neck. Sweat was beading all across his face and his head was tilted as far back as he could manage.

Ashura shared a look with Imoen. _We're about to start fighting,_ was what she hoped that look communicated, and her friend nodded. Lowering her bow slightly Imoen fixed her gaze on the hobgoblin who held the hostage and began to murmur something under her breath.

"Do you even understand the concept of a hostage, lad?" the blonde warrior snapped.

"I understand that only base villains hold innocents captive for random," Minsc bellowed, "and it is the duty of any hero to free them!" Ten paces away the Thayan seemed to be rolling his eyes and muttering angrily through his gag.

The bandit shook his head. "You're really going to ruin a perfectly good day with heroism?"

"Of course!" the big man shouted without pause. "For a hero I am, and heroing is all I know how to do. I'm in the business of heroing. So-"

A sharp white light flashed in Imoen's eyes and she raised her bow and loosed in one fluid motion. Minsc's words were interrupted by the thump of the bowstring and the sharp gasps that went up all around as they watched the arrow streak by. It struck the hostage-taker directly in the eye and sank deep into his skull, snapping his head back. The sword left a faint scratch as it slipped from the Thayan's neck. There was one wobbling step, then the hobgoblin lost control of his legs and fell in a heap.

By then Ashura was charging across the field. The second hobgoblin hefted his bow and took aim as she ran, but before the archer's bow straightened fully she could feel a tingle at the spot he was targeting, near the center of her chest. At the last moment just before the hobgoblin loosed Ashura twisted her body to the side and the arrow flew by with a whistle. She was on him before he could knock again, her sword easily stabbing through hide armor and sternum. Ripping the weapon free before the wound closed showered both her and the Thayan in blood.

She felt the eye of an archer focus on her temple and ducked low just in time. The arrow zipped by, a finger length above her helmet. Days earlier they had discovered that the assassin Nimbul's ability to casually dodge arrows came from the pair of magical boots that he wore rather than skill, and Ashura had happily snatched them up as loot. Her electrically resistant boots were handed down to Imoen (who had also gotten a ring of nightvision off the well equipped assassin.) The new boots imparted a sort of danger-sense in the wearer whenever an archer was taking aim at her, giving her a split-second chance to move aside before the arrow, bolt of bullet flew. It was hardly infallible: doubtless a skilled archer could adjust with her movements or even shoot faster than she could react, but the boots were helping so far.

Turning from her kill Ashura noted that Minsc had charged in alongside her and was exchanging furious blows with the blonde bandit. On her other side the Thayan merchant was stiffly rising to his feet. Through his gag the man was trying to say something to her, his tone angry and insistent.

Making a split-second decision Ashura turned to the Thayan and used her unbloodied sword to slice through the rope that kept his wrists bound behind his back. The man wasted no time once his hands were free. He ripped the gag from his mouth and the first words from his lips were resonant and carefully intoned, obviously a magical incantation. In the space of two breaths a smooth wall of violet light shimmered into being around him. The next round of arrows that flew from the brush bounced off the wall of light as if it were mortared stone.

Ignoring the arrows the Thayan smoothed his robes out, brushed some dust from his shoulder and twirled his spindly fingers. In a raspy voice he said: "Now to deal with these pests." A cough and then he launched into another spell, this one long and elaborate. The Thayan's body turned from side to side in something close to a dance as his voice droned and his fingers traced through the air, low red embers following his fingertips and forming ghostly runes where they passed.

As he chanted Branwen rushed past them both with her glowing hammer in hand. Ashura started to follow but then thought better of it. Putting her back to a mage who was about to unleash gods-know-what kind of destructive magic was probably a bad idea. For all she knew Branwen had just charged right into the line of a fireball. Or a firestorm. Or the mouth of the seventh hell.

Instead she turned towards Minsc and his human opponent. She took a few steps to flank the bandit but never arrived in time to help. Before she could close the distance she saw the blonde man try to block a full-bodied blow from Minsc's greatsword and miscalculate the swing. The man's mouth and eyes went wide with shock when his sword flew away, along with his sword hand, followed by a short geyser of blood. All color left the bandit's face as he stared down at the stump in disbelief, turning his head up just in time to see Minsc raise his sword high like a woodcutter (or a headsman,) and bring it down squarely between his eyes. The blow buried the blade deep into the bandit's skull.

_ Guess Minsc doesn't need by help. _

By then the red mage's incantation had come to a crescendo and Ashura cringed as the overwhelming stench of sulfur filled the air. Symbols that burned with smokeless fire burst into being on the grassy floor before the mage and formed a circle. Between the letters a cloud of darkness rose and swiftly congealed into a muscular form, black as night and dappled here and there with rusty red. The creature had four legs and was roughly the shape of a massive war dog, tall as a pony at the shoulders. In the place of eyes sharp red flames flickered and smoke rose between the beast's fangs. An instant after entering this world the hellhound snarled, turned towards the trees where the hobgoblin archers lurked and took off at a full gallop.

_ So he was summoning a firestorm then. Just the kind that won't bite me in the ass. I hope. _ Ashura charged as fast as she could behind the burning beast. The hellhound leapt over a tangle of thorns and vanished, followed almost immediately by a cry of pain from a goblin throat.

Ashura skirted around the hound a bit and stumbled upon Branwen. The priestess had her back against a tree trunk and was hemmed in by two hobgoblins wielding spears of sharpened bone and oak. They used the weapons well; slashing with spearpoints and bashing with the ends instead of just poking, and Branwen seemed to be on the defensive, blood pouring from a cut along her shield-arm.

One of the hobgoblins noticed Ashura just as she reached striking distance but by then it was too late. She plunged a sword through his back as he turned towards her and used his shuddering body as a shield when the second hobgoblin jabbed at her face with his spear. Together Ashura and Branwen harried the second warrior but he fought back hard, using his spear much like a quarterstaff and managing to bat both of their weapons away for a time. Behind her Ashura could hear flames crackling accompanied by the ugly smell of burnt hair and hide.

It took an arrow sailing past Branwen and burying itself into the hobgoblin's shoulder to break the stalemate. The wound wasn't deep but it made the warrior flinch and loosen his grip on his spear, giving enough of a pause for the two women to move in and butcher him; Ashura stabbing through the gut while Branwen brought her hammer down onto the crown of his skull.

They turned away from their dying foe and readied their weapons quickly but that seemed to be the last of the bandits. The hellhound had claimed two: one hobgoblin lay on his back with his throat opened and a second body was blackened and smoldering. Some trees and brush nearby were charred a bit as well.

The hellhound gingerly trotted back to the clearing and Ashura and Branwen followed. When it reached the red mage's side it sat down on its haunches. The mage said something to the beast in a strange, lilting language and it seemed to nod and continue sitting there, guarding its master.

Ignoring the monster Minsc rushed over to the Thayan. "My good man," he asked, "are you well? Seems they roughed you up a bit."

He didn't look particularly injured to Ashura, just splattered with mud and annoyed. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he said curtly, taking a step back from the large warrior.

"We've a warpriestess in our party adapt at healing," Minsc persisted. "Perhaps she can-"

"Really I'm quite fine! Go bother someone else." The hellhound growled.

Unperturbed, Minsc gave the mage a toothy smile. "If you insist," the big man said. "Just know that we are happy to help anyone in distress. It's what us heroes do." He gave the mage a little space. A little.

"Indeed," the Thayan said with a scowl. "Though I'm surprised a berserker of Rashemin would come to the aid of one such as I."

Minsc waved a hand. "You are not the first man in a red dress that I have rescued. Though the last one responded in a most nasty way. It was such a shame Boo had to feast on his eyes." Ashura thought she heard a faint squeak somewhere beneath the ranger's armor.

"I…see." The red mage continued to straighten his robes.

"What was your name again?" Ashura asked. Her eyes were focused on the hellhound, bloody swords still gripped tightly in her hands.

"Edwin. Of House Odesseiron. Try not to forget it this time."

Ashura shrugged. "You had a lot more jewelry the first time we met."

Edwin nodded. "Valuable jewelry best retrieved from these brigands. A ring, bracelets bejeweled with large moonstones and a circlet set with an opal. In addition there are three other rings, two wands, an enchanted belt and a wide assortment of potions that I kept on my person for mercantile purposes." He didn't make a move to search for any of this among the corpses, though Imoen and Branwen had begun to pick through the dead.

"Although," Edwin added, "this is the most important piece of all." He tapped the amulet that hung at above his chest. "They were speculating that perhaps it could be removed if I didn't have a neck any longer when your misfit band arrived. I…am grateful for your timing, unintentional as it was."

As she moved from one dead hobgoblin to next Imoen looked up at Edwin and asked: "So weren't you looking for Minsc here anyway? Back at the fair."

Edwin glanced over at the ranger. "My business was with his wychlaran, actually. I do not see her with you."

"She was kidnapped," Minsc stated sadly. "Taken right from under my nose by gnolls two days past."

Imoen furrowed her brow. "So uh, Minsc?" she asked. "You don't recognize Edwin here?"

Minsc shook his head. "I would remember one as colorful as he."

Edwin shrugged. "I believe he was indisposed when I had my dealings with the witch. What of it?"

"And how did you know the witch was in the area?" Imoen asked.

"Augers of course," Edwin said dismissively.

"So why didn't you use your augers at the fair instead of asking random people for directions?"

Edwin groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I have neither the time nor inclination to explain all the vagaries of the arcane arts to a mewling child full of questions. (Especially a little barbarian in leathers who no doubt couldn't grasp the simplest of cantrips.)"

"Hey!" Imoen protested. "I know a little 'bout magic. I even used a spell to save yer ass. True Strike. Showed me exactly how to aim my arrow."

Edwin scowled. "Then maybe I could explain a little about the sphere of divination and how little you truly know of it. Later (and only if it will end this irritating line of questioning.)"

"That sounds like fun," Imoen said with a little clap.

"So," Edwin rolled up his sleeves, "since we all seem to be seeking the witch it would no doubt be prudent if we traveled together for a time." There was a collective shrug from the rest, and that was that.

Once they had gathered everything they deemed useful and Edwin had been reacquainted with his jewelry they left the meadow and set off through the western forest. Ashura gave the pile of corpses one more backwards glance. A sauntering human warrior in fine armor leading a band of hobgoblins from some mountain tribe. She would have loved to know the story behind that, but the dead told no tales.

Soon the forest sloped upwards and they were climbing higher into the Cloudpeaks. The trail that Minsc insisted they were following rose from the trees and took them to ]a worn path along the ridge of a broad mountain. Soon they were well above the forest, winding around along a path likely made by goats and riddled with large stones. The mountain sky was cloudless for once and as midday turned to afternoon the late spring sun glared down harshly upon them. Ashura found herself wiping her brow again and again as she climbed over the roots and rocks.

A few hours into the hike she noticed that Edwin was quietly walking along beside her. "You would have let them kill me," he said by way of breaking the silence, his voice low and even.

Her only response was to cautiously eye the Thayan and place a hand on the hilt of her sword. The red mage was between her and the edge of the cliff rather than the other way around. _Good._

"You are quick to distrust and reach for your weapon I see," Edwin added. "Not a bad trait. It also does not bother me that you would have let me die. 'I don't even know this guy,'" he imitated. "I could tell it was no bluff. You were not about to let some hostage you did not even know be used as leverage by some brigands. I admire that."

They continued along the ridge, Ashura keeping her hand over the hilt of her sword. The mage was taller than her by perhaps half a head, though he stooped a bit. _He's trying not to be imposing._ His gaunt face and spindly hands gave the impression that under the billowing red robes he was a rather slender man.

"I must admit though," Edwin eventually said, "that this whole 'I'll cut you at any moment if you look at me sideways' attitude of yours is beginning to wear on me."

"Had a bad experience with a mage recently," Ashura explained as she kept her sword-hand ready. "He put a charm spell on me and Imoen. Kept it on for about a tenday while we made a long and dangerous trip." Edwin gave her a frown. "Not as bad as you might be thinking," Ashura added. "It wasn't a love spell. But I kept charging ahead and doing everything I could to protect him whenever we got attacked. I think he was using me for goblin-fodder."

"Ah, then perhaps I can reassure you. You see, when I chose to focus on conjuration magic long ago I forswore ever learning even the simplest of enchantment spells. That and illusion spells. I prefer the solid sort of magic over wispy images and the vagaries of the mind."

"Says you."

Edwin shrugged. "Believe what you wish, but I am being honest. And honest when I say that there's a certain practicality about you that I admire and that your companions seem to lack. Your priestess seems to care for nothing beyond finding clear and honorable fights, and the little redhead has her eyes full of stars and storybooks. I need say nothing of Mr. Herrrro, of course."

Ashura chuckled.

"You seem to be the only member of your band that is not hopelessly naive. I admire that, and bear you no ill will."

"Good to know," she said evenly, her eyes fixed on the mountain path ahead. She let her hands rest at her sides however, relaxing a bit as Edwin told her of Thay and how strange and different this tree-clad wild land was from his home of ever higher and higher buttes, mountains and volcanoes.

Gradually trees grew thicker and thicker around them and they found themselves walking through piney forest once more, though it always felt that they were climbing. They still had yet to find any sign that the gnolls had made camp, though a couple of times Ashura noticed what were unmistakably canine footprints in muddy patches on the forest floor. Minsc really was taking them on the right trail, it seemed. That or they had simply crossed the path of a pack of wolves. Imoen suggested that maybe the gnolls rested the way dogs do, stopping to take brief naps instead of ever building a camp. If that was the case there was no chance that they would catch up with the creatures until they reached some sort of lair.

None of that stopped Minsc from hurrying the others along, and eventually their trail led to a wide mountain river speckled with worn stones and white water. They followed the bank north for another hour, keeping to the trees. The river was wide and slower moving in places, quick and treacherous in others, but as the shadows began to grow long they had yet to find a good spot to ford or any sign that the gnolls had done the same.

Minsc located a foot-worn clearing well away from the river with an ancient firepit that hadn't seen use in months and deemed it a good spot to make camp. It was certainly handy when someone else had gathered the firepit stones (Ashura wondered if they had been hobgoblins, humans, orcs, ogres…there was no way to tell,) and the group set about searching for firewood and raising their pair of low, single pole tents.

It was the golden time before sunset when Ashura set out to search for dead dry wood for the campfire. After she had carried a handful of sticks to the clearing and returned to search deeper in the forest honey-blonde hair caught her eye, gleaming where a ray of sunlight struck it through a part in the forest canopy. It was Branwen, squatting at a spot where the trees seemed to clear a bit by the roots of a willow. At first Ashura thought the priestess was relieving herself but her pants were on her legs and she seemed to be staring at something beyond the trees and brush. Was she meditating? Ashura took a few steps towards her and the older woman noticed and turned her head slightly, placing a finger close to her lips to implore silence.

Curious now Ashura crept closer. When she knelt beside Branwen the other woman silently pointed ahead towards the part in the trees and Ashura's eyes followed. Her hand shot to her mouth when she saw, stifling a laugh. Beyond the light branches they had a clear view of a wide and slow moving portion of the river. Minsc's bloody and battered armor and boots lay on the bank, and the tunic, leggings and woolen socks he wore beneath were laying out on large stones at the river's edge.

Out in the river stood Minsc himself, the water coming up to his thighs. He had already washed the bandit's blood from his face and now his cupped hands were splashing water against his chest and shoulders, sending it sluicing down his broad back. From the forest's edge the two women had a perfect view of Minsc's muscular frame. All of it. His minimal body hair suggested that -as Ashura had suspected- he was more Mulan than Rashemi, at least by birth. A little scar tissue on his flat, broad chest and along his side showed that he had seen battle in the past. There was also a streaking scar across his shoulder blade and a spot that may have been a puncture from an arrow in the middle of his left buttock.

Branwen turned slightly and whispered as quietly as she could in Ashura's ear: "Quite the physique I daresay. And no doubt the water is quite cold, but still. Methinks he'd be good for a tumble or four."

Ashura made a face. "That seems uh…" she whispered back. "I mean he seems kind of…addled."

"Bah," Branwen replied ever so softly. "You mistake a simple outlook for a simple mind. He is direct and sincere, a sort of man that, from what I've seen, this age and region seems to lack."

"And that makes him worth a 'tumble or four'?"

"That and _that_ ," the northerner said with a cheeky grin and a nod towards the muscular body gleaming in the golden light. "We may assault the dog-men's fortress on the morrow. We all may die. If not then perhaps the next day or the next. Tis good to live a little before hand, no?"

Nearby movement caught their eyes and they both looked down to see a small brown rodent with yellow and white patches walking on the leaves before them. It looked up with big, curious eyes. Then in a blink the little creature turned and scurried back into the brush. It appeared again on the riverbank, and when it reached the water's edge Minsc turned and seemed to say something to the rodent before he looked up, directly through the patch of branches they had been spying through. He began to wade slowly towards the riverbank.

"Uh oh," Ashura whispered. _Busted._

"Ladies," Minsc shouted from the water's edge, not seeming to mind the eyes on his naked form in the least. "No need to wait politely for a turn there in the forest. There's water enough for all!"

Branwen chuckled and stood. "See," she said to Ashura, "he's wilier than he seems."

"Him or his hamster," Ashura noted as Branwen stretched her arms and padded towards the riverbank. Soon the northerner was unbuckling her scalemail coat and setting it beside Minsc's discarded armor. _A bit less shy than when she was first awakened from the stone. Guess its different when it's on her terms._ "The water's a bit cold isn't it?" Ashura asked, lingering by the trees. It had been a hot late Mirtul but it was still a mountain river.

"Hardly," Minsc said with half a laugh. "Compared to the trial baths of the Ice Dragon Berserker lodge back home the water's scalding."

"Or to the fjords of Norheim, no doubt," Branwen added as she slipped off her boots and beckoned.

With a shrug Ashura stepped onto the shore and began to undress as well. When she did follow Branwen into the water she barely managed to suppress a scream that would have probably brought their other companions running. No matter what the other two said about ice dragons or fjords the water sure felt cold to her.

Cold and invigorating. Soon the three of them were splashing each other and swimming out into the deeper pools.


	13. Dealing with Devils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magical, protective rings are pretty nice to have. Nice enough to look the other way while some stranger gets murdered? Well...

_ "Everyone knows that Thay and Rashemen have fought many wars, but the absolute inability that the red mages and masked witches have to ever get along is something one must witness firsthand to truly appreciate. If a Thayan and a Hathran were placed together on a sinking boat you would find them washed up days later, hands around each other's throats." _ –Zou the Wanderer, _Tales from the Golden Way_

* * *

Through wide tunnels that wormed their way deeper and deeper into the earth she walked, each step echoing. The path was vaguely familiar: dug out mining shafts at first that soon gave way to the black walls of magma chutes. Here and there the reptilian corpses of kobolds lay along the path like mile markers. Their slitted eyes were wide and vacant, jaws lolling open, thin forked tongues hanging limp and still.

The narrow magma channels opened into wider caves carved by the drip of water, eon after eon. She passed through a maze of pillars, by rows of stalagmites that jutted from the floor like jagged teeth, then under fragile stalactites that threatened to fall like spears. More kobold bodies lined the long natural bridge over the narrow tributary, and beyond that she was drawn towards the great chamber where the underground river roared.

The bridge of smoothly carved stone that crossed the river was smeared here and there with blood where her companions had turned on each other, and though it wasn't exactly where they had fallen in the waking world their bodies lay at even points upon the path. The first body she came upon was Jaheira's, her armor battered and torn and her eyes wide and empty. Old dried blood had pooled from the wound in her back so that she appeared to lie on a bed of rust.

Farther along the bridge the remains of Montaran lay in two halves. The stone beneath and between his torso and pelvis were smeared with black and red, and ropey intestines reaching between the halves like laces meant to tie something secure, now unraveled and abandoned. Beyond Montaron Khalid was splayed out on his back in rusting armor. His hands were bone-thin, fingers bent as if they had been clawing at something, and his face was shriveled where Xzar's spell had ripped the life from him. Instead of the bronzed, weathered tone she remembered his complexion was now a bruised purple with spots of blue, tongue thrust unnaturally out from his open lips. Had he drowned? Died from Xzar's magic? Some combination of the two? Khalid's bastard sword sat at his side, stained with dark blood where he had impaled Xzar upon it, but of the necromancer there was no sign.

Each of their eyes were wide and vacant, but as Ashura looked away and faced the cavern ahead she felt as if each corpse was watching her. The mouth of the cave at the center of the river loomed wide and swallowed her up. She stepped through darkness for a time then into blinding light as she entered Mulahey's old chamber.

The stone hall was wider and more grandly decorated than she remembered. In the place of piled Calishite pillows lay row upon row of bright, ornate carpets spun in dazzling spirals and pictographs. Translucent drapes hung from the high vaulted ceiling; violet, pink, ruby red and honey yellow. The dais and seat at the end of the chamber loomed like the throne of some giant king, armrests cushioned with stuffed silk. Jagged spikes fanned out from the backrest.

And there at the foot of the throne stood Mulahey.

He bore the same markings his corpse had when last she saw it: a gaping wound at the stomach where broken chainmail hung and a wider gap just above and between his eyes where her sword had stabbed into his forehead and through his skull. And yet beneath the hole where bits of dried blood and black matter leaked there was life and consciousness in his eyes. Life and consciousness and spite, the narrow pinpricks glaring at her.

Somehow Ashura knew that despite the accusing looks Mulahey was no threat. This thing before her was a lingering shade awaiting its journey to the realms of the dead. All it could do was glare accusingly and await its fate.

Across the carpets she was drawn to him in slow, deliberate steps. As she neared the throne there was a ripping sound between them and an object burst from the floor, tearing free from the fine silk. Ashura remembered the skeletons that had burst from the floor and leapt back with a start, but the object simply hovered there between her and the shade. It was suspended at chest level: a dagger formed from sharpened bone. The handle was padded by cured flesh and wrapped tight with gut-string. Somehow she knew that the bone was human, as well as the leather. She even felt a kinship with the object that sent a chill down her spine. Was this knife fashioned from the flesh and bone of an ancestor? Such a strange thought.

A hum emanated from the dagger and she found her hand drifting towards the hilt. It demanded to be grasped. To be used. _Take me._

She pulled her hand back and forced herself to remain still.

_ Take me. Take me and strike the shade down. I will give your enemy a death beyond death, and his essence shall make you strong. _

Taking a step back she let her hands drop to her sides and glared at the dagger. Whatever the source of that voice was it was trying to compel her, and she was so very tired of being compelled.

She remembered her father, with his ancient, weary eyes. From as early as she could recall he would heap books on her and patiently guide her through calligraphy strokes and grammar lessons while she fidgeted and fumbled. As she grew older her blood would boil during those tedious exercises and her mind would turn to running and climbing, preferably as far from the walls of the fortress-prison as she could get.

Father had wanted her to follow the ways of Oghma and become a scribe and sage like he was, but she simply never had the temperament. Instead she had taken to beating on practice dummies and any boy who would spar with her in the yards when she was supposed to be studying. She had even taken the Stormlord as her patron deity, partly out of petty teenage rebellion, but also because the god of destruction fit well with the storms that kept welling up inside. She could never hate her father; the kindly old man with perfect diction who showed his wild daughter far more patience than even she thought she deserved at times, but she always despised the gilded cage he had placed her in.

She remembered Xzar's honeyed words and trustworthy smile and the way he had sent her out into lines of goblins and bandits and kobolds while he stood back with his arms crossed. She remembered the Harper couple and their doomed mission that she had followed along with out of respect for her father and a lack of any other direction. And most of all she remembered Nimbul and his immense, shimmering eyes as they held her in place as sure as a basilisk's gaze. Up until the rage –the storm- had welled up inside and freed her.

_ Take me, _ the whispering voice of the dagger repeated. _Strike the shade down. Give him a death beyond death and-_

_ No! _ she shot back. _I don't simply obey hissing voices in the dark. My will is my own._

_ Your will may be your own _ , the voice retorted, _but I do not give you a choice, child_. _You can seize the power that is bred in your bones –in these bones- or we can stand here in the dark between life and death forever. I can wait._

After that all was silent save the low hum that resonated from the dagger. Mulahey simply continued to glare. Ashura glared right back and they stood at an impasse for untold time. Was it seconds or days before she clenched her fists and began to stride forward?

She marched right past the dagger, straight towards the shade with her empty hands out.

_ What are you doing? _ the voice from the bone hissed.

_ I don't need you. I don't want your power. _ She locked her fingers around the thick muscles of Mulahey's neck. The skin was cold as stone but when she squeezed she found the flesh surprisingly weak and yielding. It was just a shade, after all.

_ You cannot! _

_ Seems I can. _ Ashura's hands clenched like a vice around the barely substantial throat as she tried to throttle whatever life was left from it. The shade's hands shot up and tried to grip her wrists and fight, but all he could do was hang on, his grip as weak as gossamer. His eyes bulged and his mouth hung open. In moments the orc was on his knees. _Seems there is power enough in my own hands. I don't need you. I don't want your power. Or its price._

The face of the orc swam before her and he became the blonde man in rags who had come at her with a knife in the bunkhouse. It wavered again and she was strangling the elf she had slain moments after the first assassin. Next the face contorted into Tarnesh's, the grey haired mage gagging and writhing in her iron grip. The face became that of a bandit woman next, then one of the bandit men, then the huntress of Malar who had sought to make sport of Ashura. For a moment the body on its knees before her shrunk down and became a blue-skinned goblin, its feet kicking above the carpets. The goblin became a kobold, its lizard tail lashing franticly while stubby legs pinwheeled. Next the body grew and grew until she was holding onto a massive ogrillon, but the flesh beneath her palms remained soft and pliable. All she had to do was keep squeezing.

The ogre-like creature shrunk and became a hobgoblin, first with a smooth face and then with scarifications swelling across his nose and cheeks. For a time she was looking into the red-rimmed eyes of a priestess of Beshaba; first the one she had sent flying to her death from the cliff and then the second priestess who she had killed in a desperate hand-to-hand struggle. Finally she found herself staring at Nimbul's once arrogant face. His tongue was lolling out the corner of his mouth and the light was almost gone from his eyes. There were no struggles now; just reflexive twitching.

The body went still and the shade lost its face as it melted into a ghostly light that soon faded to nothing. Or almost nothing. There was a faint glow that lingered on Ashura's hands. As she stood straight once more the voice of the dagger rumbled: _Your defiance cannot change what you are. What I made you._

She turned towards the dagger as the voice made the entire cavern shake. _You will learn!_

With that the dagger flew towards her chest with dazzling speed. When the blade struck her eyes snapped open and she found herself sitting up in her bedroll, gasping in shock and clasping a hand to her chest. There was no wound; just the padding of the doublet she had slept in, a sharp chill and a racing heart.

All was dark and quiet in the tent. A storm had rolled in sometime during the night, judging by damp air and the steady dripping sound on the roof. For a time Ashura lay back, listening to the droplets fall and Imoen's soft breathing, but eventually it became clear that she would not get back to sleep. As quietly as she could manage she slithered out of her bedroll and sat up, wrapped her sword-belt and leather skirt around her hips, slipped into her boots and crawled out of the tent with helmet and clinking chainmail tunic in hand. Outside it was the darkest hour of the night, heavy with mist.

She found Branwen on watch duty, perched upon a rock at the edge of the clearing and surveying the darkness. The war-priestess protested at first when Ashura offered to relieve her. "I'm not going to be able to get back to sleep," Ashura explained, "I might as well." With a shrug Branwen relented and made her way to the tent.

Once she was alone Ashura turned towards the darkness and looked down at the palms of her hands. She recalled the contorted faces from her dream. A bit less than a month since she had left her home and she had really killed all those people and creatures personally? Not to mention all the other carnage she had witnessed. Her tutors had always taught her that the Realms outside of Candlekeep were dangerous places, and there was a bounty on her head. But still...

_ 'We are both children of Death.' _

With a little will her right hand began to glow with the blue-white ghostfire. With a little more focus an identical flame bloomed in her left. She stood there for a time, pondering this strange new power that she still did not understand. With a thought she doused the twin flames and clenched her fists.

* * *

As he was in the habit of doing most every morning, Edwin awakened well before dawn. Preparing ones spells long before most people were even awake had worked to his advantage many times, and in Thay you took every advantage you could. He was also a meticulous man, and he took a certain pride in laying out careful plans for each day while he memorized just the right spells to work them out. Before any of that though he whispered the words of a simple nightvision incantation so that he could find his way to his equipment in the pitch black tent.

While he slipped on his circlet and bracers Edwin gave the man who had been sleeping nearby a long, ponderous look. Never in his wildest imaginings could he have guessed that he would begin this or any other morning sharing a tent with a Rashemi berserker. This was actually his first up-close encounter with one of the legendary warriors, but he had always assumed a berserker's immediate reaction would be to scream and try to take his head off. Instead this big, bald bull of a man had tried to _rescue_ him.

Thinking about it brought an embarrassed scowl to Edwin's face even now. A great Thayan mage on his way to claim a prize that would have made him the envy of the Sharp Teeth Enclave taken down by a _hobgoblin_ he had never seen coming, tackled and gagged before he could bark out the simplest defensive spell. Then _rescued_ (in a rescue attempt that nearly got him killed,) by a Rashemi halfwit. If Denak ever learned of this he'd be laughed right out of the enclave.

The berserker was sleeping deeply with his arms splayed out and his bedroll in disarray. This could be the best chance he could hope for to finish what the gnolls had failed at and be rid of the witch's bodyguard before he became a problem. But as vulnerable as the sleeping giant seemed now Edwin was not sure how to proceed. All of the destructive spells he had prepared at the moment would be loud and messy, and he was not entirely certain any would insure that the berserker died quickly. Burning the tent down, turning the rest of the group against him and waking the Rashemi up in a very bad mood did not seem like a winning move.

There was the dagger at his belt, but Edwin had never used it for anything beyond slicing food. Storybooks and braggarts talked casually about slitting throats, but he had no idea how to effectively do it. More than likely he'd just scratch the berserker's thick, muscular neck and get throttled for it.

And then there was the rodent. The darkvision spell made the interior of the tent clear but colorless, and between where Edwin sat and the Rashemi lay he could plainly see the fat little cheeks and large dark eyes of the hamster. Watching him. There did not seem to be anything overtly magical about the creature, but with the Rashemi looks could be deceiving. They were a people guided and protected by countless unseen spirits, and Minsc had even called the little rat his 'animal companion.'

_ 'It was such a shame Boo had to feast on his eyes.' _

Edwin shook his head, rolled over and crawled through the tent flap. He would have to deal with the big brute sometime soon, but he had more than fireballs and acid arrows in his quiver of potential spells, and time enough to sit down and think over which to arm himself with.

At the damp, blackened firepit he laid out a few pieces of dry wood and with a simple incantation set a new fire crackling. From his pack he retrieved a battered brass pot and tripod. It was his habit to set herbal tea brewing while he studied his spellbook, a blend that roused and sharpened the senses. Mindful not to wake the camp he took the pot off and poured into a tall tin cup just as steam began to coil up from the spout. It was a brew both bitter and sweet; the sweetness from fork-root and the bitterness born of camellia leaves.

As he set the steaming cup down to cool Edwin noticed movement at the edge of the clearing. The small fire made it hard to see anything beyond its light but his enhanced vision was enough for him to make out a lean figure standing in the darkness, watching him. Squinting, Edwin recognized the figure: plumed helmet, chainmail tunic, studded leather skirt. It was the dark haired girl with the icy eyes and twin swords. _Odd._

Edwin stood up and approached her, his basilisk-hide sandals making no sound upon the dirt and grass. Steam rose from the cup of tea between his hands. "Weren't you on sentinel duty when I went to bed hours ago?" he asked in a low, soft voice.

"Yeah," Ashura gruffly whispered back. "Couldn't sleep. And it's near enough to dawn."

"I've brewed some herbal tea if you would like some," Edwin said.

Ashura just continued to watch him. Now that he was closer Edwin could see that her eyes were narrow with suspicion. _How surprising_ , he thought sarcastically. Unperturbed, he stepped forward and offered his steaming cup. When she made no move to take it he rolled his eyes. "I suppose it is wise to always be suspicious," Edwin said. He took a sip of the tea and made a show of swallowing. "There, no poison, if that's what you were thinking."

She rolled her eyes a bit and took the cup after that. After a careful sip she gave him a little nod. "It's good," she said. "You'll have to excuse me if I'm not too trusting of a man with such a flimsy story."

Edwin chuckled slightly. "Indeed. Seeking out the witch to refund her for a faulty wand seemed like a good story to give passerbies at the fair, but it makes no sense when she has been captured by a pack of bloodthirsty beast-men and doubtlessly stripped of all her possessions. It is something a four-year-old child could easily conclude, but I applaud you for puzzling it out anyway."

Ashura glared at him and took another sip of tea before passing Edwin the cup. "In Thay," she noted, "most of the military is comprised of gnolls. They're the main muscle of the Thayan armies, used in your wars with Rashemen and Aglarond." She looked Edwin in the eyes, unblinking. "Those gnolls that we're tracking are Thayan aren't they? They were sent to capture Dynaheir."

"They are nothing compared to the shock troops you would find upon the plateau," Edwin responded, meeting her gaze evenly, "but yes, they do serve the local Thayan enclave. And yes, I sent them to capture the witch once I was sure of the road she would be taking from Nashkel. Your deduction impresses me. Just a little."

A bit of a grin crept across Ashura's face. "I'm a book-learned barbarian, remember?" There was a pause between them as Edwin took another sip of tea. "So we're at odds?" Ashura finally asked. A hand rested on the hilt of one of her swords and Edwin had the impression that she'd handed him back the tea to make sure that his own hands were occupied. He would have to throw the cup down to begin any complicated spell.

_ A smart girl, relatively speaking. Though not a wise one, to make threatening gestures at a red wizard of Thay. _ She reminded him a bit of Linka, the bodyguard of his eldest brother. Linka had been a former pitfighter, gruff and taciturn but not unpleasing to the eye. In Thay it was common for nobles to hire on former gladiators for protection, and especially popular to choose a warrior of the opposite sex who often doubled as a bedwarmer. As the youngest child of a relatively minor house Edwin had never been close to being able to afford such, and he had always been envious of his brother.

"No," Edwin said, "we need not be at odds."

"You said before that you thought I was a practical person," Ashura noted. "Betraying your friends is _not_ practical."

Edwin's voice was very soft now. "No it is not. So I will not ask you to do such. But ask yourself: is that big hunk of everything except brain-matter really your friend? Or is he simply a man who demanded your assistance and dragged you into a struggle between agents of rival nations without even the mention of pay? I, on the other hand, can pay handsomely." The red wizard produced a silver ring from his pocket. It was inlaid with a green bead shaped and decorated like a small round shield.

"One of the rings I was carrying," Edwin explained. He tugged one of his own rings off and then slipped it onto the bare finger. There was a brief shimmer around his silhouette that faded from view almost instantly. "Its enchantment creates a barrier around the wearer that slows weapons down. Quite a useful protection for a warrior. It is a minor enchantment, to be honest, but quite a reward for doing absolutely nothing, which is all I ask of you."

"Nothing?"

"Yes. If a point comes at the end of our little quest when you are the only thing standing between the witch and I simply stand back, do nothing, and enjoy your reward."

"And what will you do with the witch?"

"I suppose since we've gone this far I should be honest." Edwin glanced around at the silent, still camp before continuing in a whisper. "Believe it or not I really am a merchant, working for the Thayan enclave in this region. Our primary business is trading in magical items," ( _and spreading Thayan influence and finding good sources of slave labor to send back to the homeland, but I'd best not mention that to her,_ ) "but when we encounter wychlaran agents we have orders which supersede that mission. Ideally we are to capture the witch -as the Bright Tooth gnolls seem to have succeeded in doing- and extract any information we can from them. If capture and interrogation is unfeasible then yes, we are under orders to kill the witch and take anything of value back to the enclave, especially journals and spellbooks.

"The idiot dog-men may be trying to interrogate the witch right now, but I've no faith that they will get anything useful. Breaking a person to the point where you truly get information is an art that requires time and patience. I know a little of that art but with you heroes coming through it will doubtlessly be prudent of me to kill the witch and leave quickly. A blast of magic, a spell of escape, and then I go off to collect the bounty from my superiors." He slipped the ring from his finger and held it out. "And all you need do is quietly stand aside and let me."

Ashura eyed the ring silently for a time, and then waved her hand towards the trinket. "I can't just take that and make guarantees." Her eyes lingered on the ring however, and she eventually added: "I'll think on it though. And I won't say anything."

With an understanding smile Edwin nodded. "Prudent I suppose. Just remember the offer." He turned slightly.

"And wizard."

"Yes?"

"I won't let any harm come to Imoen," she stated. "Not for all the gaudy jewelry in Thay."

"I see. Is she your lover?"

Ashura made a face. "What? No. Ew!"

Edwin chuckled a little. _Nice to see her taken off guard._

"It's nothing like that," Ashura protested. "Imoen's like a sister to me. Hells, she basically is a sister. We grew up together."

"Duly noted. And worry not. No harm shall come to her. Or to your priestess friend. Just think on my offer, and we'll see where the dice fall. I plan to wait wait for the right opportunity to complete my mission safely (for all but the witch,) and the reward is yours if you promise not to get in my way." With that Edwin turned and silently strode back to the camp. The flames had died down to red embers but he had no reason to rebuild the fire. The darkvision would allow him to read the words of his spellbook, and Edwin now had a good idea of exactly what spells to prepare for the coming day.

* * *

A little over an hour after breaking camp they found the spot where the gnolls had apparently crossed the river: a narrow bridge of pine logs that spanned the water. The river flowed rapid here, white froth roiling in many places around broad, smooth stones, though it seemed relatively shallow and the logs rested upon moss-covered slabs in the water. It was perhaps a hundred feet from one end of the bridge to the other, and if pressed close they could probably walk the span of it two abreast, but with weapons out and no worry of tumbling over the edge it would best to go one by one. Beyond the bridge stubby fir and cedar trees hung silently over thick brambles.

"It's the perfect place for an ambush," Ashura noted glumly, still squatting in the cover of the forest. Someone was going to have to make the first crossing. _Unless_ … "You know, if anyone has the spell or potion handy now would be the perfect time for some invisible scouting."

Imoen frowned and shook her head. "Inviso-power's a bit beyond me I'm afraid. I think we're going to have to rely on your dancing shoes."

"I forsook using illusion spells when I trained in the arts of conjuration," Edwin added.

"How convenient," Ashura muttered.

"It's the truth," Edwin said with a shrug. "No enchantments or illusions. My magic is focused on the more substantial."

Rising to her feet Ashura took a deep breath. "Well back me up with some substantial magic if things go south, okay?"

"Of course," Edwin said with a smile that was in no way reassuring, stretching and strumming his long fingers.

Drawing her swords and shaking her head, Ashura cautiously approached the bridge. Minsc and Branwen followed and Imoen knocked an arrow. All was silent save the rushing of the river when Ashura took the first step onto the bridge, then another and another, putting her trust into her 'dancing shoes.'

This was the perfect place for an ambush. So of course there was an ambush.

It started with a chill that ran up Ashura's spine and into her left shoulder, settling there; sharp and precise, just like the eye of a focused archer. She twisted that shoulder to the side as the first arrow flew by. The acute, chilling sensation moved to her left hip and she hopped backwards, near the edge of the bridge. Sure enough a second arrow sailed past her lower body and stuck in the wood with a thump. Two more arrows flew from the brush but missed entirely and struck the river with twin splashes. She had gotten a glimpse of the archers when they rose from the brambles and low branches to let fly: orange skin, flat faces and sharp ears. _More hobgoblins_.

A third of the way across the bridge already and not wanting to get peppered by arrows in the back, Ashura bent low and sprinted for the far end. She had reached the halfway point when branches snapped and fell aside for a creature straight out nightmares, the sight of which stopped her in her tracks.

Well over nine feet tall and terrifyingly fast it burst out of the forest and stomped its way across the bridge, shaking the logs with each thunderous step. Broad and grotesquely muscled, the creature wore nothing save some strips of animal fur at its loins. Its proportions were almost human and _definitely_ male but its ears were long and sharp at the tips, its tusks sharper still and its eyes were tiny white beads that gleamed with rage. With one hand it carried a massive club hewn from an oak tree.

_ A full ogre _ , Ashura realized with a gasp. _Like the ones that attacked father._ She could hear Edwin chanting something on the riverbank and one of Imoen's arrows sailed by and struck the ogre's broad chest before it reached her at the bridge's midpoint, but the wound didn't seem to even slow the creature. The ogre's great oak cudgel swept in from the left and Ashura managed to avoid the first blow by ducking very low. Hefting the club with both hands now the creature took aim as Ashura's swords shot up to attempt a desperate block. What else could she do? The ogre was so close, its stench near as overpowering as its battle-roar.

A burst of red light and an explosion of displaced water next to the bridge made both her and the ogre hesitate. Ashura took advantage of the distraction and backed away as something massive and slimy burst from the river and collided with her opponent. It was a serpent, she realized as it reeled up from the foam and coiled around the ogre's midsection; longer than the ogre was tall with scales as black as midnight and eyes that seemed to glow like golden coals. The ogre gripped at the thick coils, squeezing and pulling, but the snake didn't budge and soon it had constricted around him a second time. Then a third.

Something skimmed along the surface of the water nearby. One of Branwen's glowing hammers, Ashura realized as she backed even further from the lashing snake and struggling ogre. The ghost-hammer turned, picked up speed and slammed soundly into the ogre's stomach, knocking him even more off balance than the serpent could. A couple of wobbling steps and then the struggling creatures toppled and hit the river, sending up a splash that drenched both Ashura and Minsc behind her.

The monsters continued to struggle in the water, kicking up foam and mud, but the ogre couldn't right himself and the current quickly dragged them further and further downstream. The ogre was still desperately beating at the coils of the snake around him when they both drifted around a bend in the river and disappeared.

No arrows flew as Ashura and Minsc ran across the rest of the bridge and charged into the brush. The hobgoblins had melted away the moment their ogre went down. For a few tense minutes they gathered beside a broad fir at the other side of the bridge, back to back, waiting for the goblins to strike again or for the ogre to return. The forest remained eerily still and silent, however. Eventually the full party gathered, formed up two by two, and after a few words they began to follow a wide, clear path through the brambles and wood where Minsc claimed to see gnoll prints once again.

With luck the ogre had either been crushed or drowned and the hobgoblins were too cowed to regroup and attack again. Without luck…well, someone or something trying to kill you roughly every few hours was becoming normal to Ashura.

"Was that magic substantial enough for you?" Edwin asked, marching a pace behind her.

"Yeah," Ashura responded. She turned her head, gave him a slight smile, and then turned back. "Thanks." _He's trying to ingratiate himself._

Of course if it hadn't been for the mage's quick thinking with that summoned serpent-creature Ashura would have probably ended up in the river desperately fighting the current instead of the ogre, maybe with a bleeding head-wound for good measure. Memories of the kobold traps and the underground river came back to her; of almost drowning as the weight of her armor and equipment dragged her down and her lungs felt like they would burst.

And that protective ring would have certainly come in handy if the ogre had managed to land a blow. She looked down at her gloved but unadorned fingers for a moment. She remembered her dream that morning, how she had rejected the bone dagger and its offer of power for an unspecified price that she sensed would be dear and terrible. It was easy enough to reject a deal with a devil in the dream world, where nothing had weight and thoughts and emotions were enough to carry you through.

Here in the waking world however a good magical item could mean the difference between life and death. The monsters of dreams were terrifying in their own way, but such shadows couldn't compare to a nine foot tall hulking brute that smelled of rotting fur and shit and sweat lifting an oaken club and aiming to dash out your brains with it.

_ Hm. Maybe if I have a moment alone with Edwin again… _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The opening quote here was inspired by Blue-Inked Frost's review on FFnet, noting that it was funny how Ashura and Imoen didn't realize there would be animosity between people from Thay and Rashemen. It's the best explanation I could come up with for that little inconsistency. I'm very grateful for all the reviews and feedback.


	14. Heroes and Hamsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minsc is the true Hero of this story

_ "I'll only believe him dead when I see him disintegrated before my eyes. Even then beware the dust."  _ –Nysis Mediacros of Thay at the Second Battle of Lake Mulsantir, 1102 D.R.

* * *

The Sword Coast is named for the sharp cliffs that rise like great white blades from much of the shore. Ashura remembered this as they ascended a narrow mountain path between sun-bleached stones. The bare rock all around them stabbed at the sky, and she could taste brine in the air. Somewhere beyond the cliffs the crash of distant waves echoed, a rumble that reminded her of home.

Closer at hand than the unseen ocean a wide river snaked through a fissure thirty feet or so beneath the cliffs. Their path had been following its course more or less for the past half an hour, and after losing sight of the water and making a steep climb up a switch-back and around another jagged tooth of rock they came upon a long bridge of wood and rope that spanned the river's width. In the distance high above the crossing an old stone fortress clung to the cliffs, carved from the face of the mountain. If Minsc was truly guiding them over the path the gnolls had taken it was a good bet this was their layer.

_ The Bright Tooth gnoll clan,  _ Ashura thought with trepidation. Her stomach was twisting itself into knots. All along the march through the mountains that day she had pondered revealing the snake in their midst and being done with it. It could have been so easy. 'Hey everybody! This guy wants to murder Dynaheir!" Surely Branwen's magic, Imoen's tricks and Minsc's sword arm along with her own would be more than Edwin could handle. It had seemed for a while that she still had a choice, but now the end of the winding mountain road was in sight. Doing nothing was a choice in itself, it seemed.

Well, almost nothing. She glanced down at the new ring, tight over the supple leather glove on her right hand. If she was going to face the consequences of saying nothing about Edwin's plot at least she'd do it with a little magic protection around her.

Ahead the rope and tightly-tied planks swayed above the river. _Ugh, another bridge_. There even seemed to be someone –or something- sitting on the other side. Maybe she could get Minsc to go first this time. He was the Hero, after all.

As they drew closer to the gap two muscular, male-looking humanoids stood up from where they had been lounging by the support poles at the far end of the bridge and looked their way. They were lesser ogres by the look of them, like the pair that had killed the halfling courier. A matted mop of rust-red hair stuck out at all angles from the scalp of one ogrillon and the other was completely bald. Instead of loincloths this pair wore ragged trousers cinched with rope, an outfit not unlike that of a common laborer on a hot day.

After all Ashura had been through it came as no surprise that a pair of large monsters would greet them here. It was a surprise, however, when instead of simply screaming and charging across the bridge one of the creatures –the one with red hair- spoke. "This is our bridge," the ogrillon growled through jagged teeth over the gurgle of the river far below. "You pay to cross."

The plank-bridge was wide enough for two people to stand comfortably side-by-side, with frayed ropes at either edge. Minsc and Ashura were in the lead, feet close to the first planks, and both had readied their weapons when the lesser ogres made their presence known. "Pay?" Ashura asked, one of her swords pointing at the lead ogrillon. "Like a toll? Uh…like a coin or something?" _Maybe this will be simp-_

The ogrillon with the red hair shook his head violently. "No!" he shouted. "More! Hundred…no, two hundred. Gold!"

Ashura made a face. "That's a bit steep."

"Yeah," Imoen interjected. "Aren't you supposed to ask us a riddle or something?"

The two creatures shared confused looks.

"Haven't you ever read one of those stories?" Imoen asked. "You ask us a riddle, and if we answer right we get to cross the bridge. And if we answer wrong…uh, we have to give you something I guess."

The bald ogrillon's eyes brightened as something occurred to him. "Course!" he shouted. "Mum told me one of those. You answer our riddle, you cross. You answer wrong and we eat one of you." He turned to his companion. "That maybe better than gold. I'm starving."

Ashura cringed. She admired Imoen's attempt to haggle their way down, and answering a riddle asked by an idiot would be less of a challenge than fighting these two, but this was not looking like it would end well. Maybe if she could shift the subject. "Do you eat the gnolls when they pass through here?" Ashura asked. "Or do you take their gold?"

"The dog-men?" the red-haired ogre responded. "Course not. They're bigger than you. Lots of 'em too. They say 'Watch the bridge' so we do."

"Don't pay us though," the bald ogre complained. "Or feed us. Forget riddles. I say we just take one of 'em and make a feast."

His companion didn't object. "Which?" he asked instead.

_ Well this is going nowhere good. _ Ashura suddenly wished she had some skill with a bow so she could get the inevitable battle started. She gave Imoen a pointed look but this time her friend didn't notice or take the hint.

The bald ogre pondered very briefly. "Biggest one I guess." He pointed at Minsc.

"Ha!" Minsc barked. "You'll eat my steel, not my flesh, villain!" And with that he charged full-speed across the swaying bridge, oblivious to the motion. On the last pace Minsc sailed towards the nearer creature with his foot raised and planted his boot against its stomach. The kick sent the ogrillon stumbling back along the planks before he lost his feet and fell on his ass.

By then Edwin had begun to hum something and Ashura was following across the lurching bridge. When the ogrillon fell the bridge tilted even harder, and she found herself pressing a fist against one of the support ropes and fighting to maintain balance. She didn't move any farther until the bridge righted itself a bit.

Minsc seemed less bothered by the shifting battlefield and was slashing away at the bald ogrillon. The burly monster proved faster than he looked, dodging back and ducking and twisting. He even managed to block a slash from Minsc's greatsword by slapping his forearm against the flat of the blade. Despite his oafish appearance and manner of speaking the ogrillon seemed to be an experienced brawler. The attacks did push the creature back little by little though, well past the red-haired ogrillon that was righting himself.

When everything had settled a bit and Ashura pressed forward again a strange, giddy sensation filled her body and each stride she took over the bridge seemed to cover more planks than the previous. Those boards seemed farther away as well, smaller and smaller. The red-headed Ogrillon had pushed up onto his feet as she drew closer and to Ashura's shock he seemed to be shorter than she, his head coming up to her chest.

She halted, placing her hands against the two support ropes and taking stock of the sudden change. Her weapons and armor seemed to have grown with her. The gladiuses in her hands were now the size of broadswords and her feet were purchased near either edge of the bridge. _Was this Edwin's doing?_

The ogrillon got over the shock of Ashura's transformation faster than she did and let out a roar, running full-bore at her. She tried to swing down with her new longswords but he passed under her arms in a flash and crashed bodily into her. After a couple of wobbly steps back Ashura managed to stay upright on the swaying planks but the ogrillon's thick arms were wrapped around her now in a tight bearhug. Small as he seemed he was still grotesquely over-muscled and the grip was vice-like and tightening, intent on pushing the breath from her lungs and crushing ribs.

Grunting, Ashura slammed the pommels of her swords down against the lesser ogre's shoulders in hopes of loosening his grip. _No good_. The next set of blows came to the back of the ogrillon's head. There were pained snarls but the grip held. Twisting his head the ogrillon tried to bite at her chest. Sharp as his teeth were she felt nothing beyond a little pinch while he got a mouthful of chainmail. Chain armor was a good thing. Chain armor with magically enlarged links was even better.

" _Echellion racadis sar zaen._ " It was Edwin again, chanting from somewhere behind her. As he intoned the strange the words Ashura felt another wave of vigor and power surge through her body. When she slammed the pommels of her swords down the next time it was with a blinding speed she hadn't thought herself capable of. Then the swords were up in a flash and she slammed down again. And again. And again.

The ogrillon's grip loosened and then the arms fell away as it stumbled back, shaking its battered and bleeding head and blinking through red eyes; punch-drunk. In the brief moment that the creature was on his heels Ashura drove her left sword deep into his chest and slashed wide with her right-hand weapon, opening his throat with a brief spout of blood. The ogrillon's head rolled back at an unnatural angle before he slid off her sword and fell in a heap. Her long legs carried her over the shuddering body with an easy leap.

Two more quick strides took her to the end of the bridge where Minsc tussled with his foe. The ogrillon was bleeding from a deep gash in the chest and a few other spots but he had managed to grip the ranger's greatsword and hold on with blood-slick hands. Rushing forward with casual speed that shocked her, Ashura plunged her sword through the lesser ogre's back. A yank of her arm and she pulled the impaled creature back from Minsc, who followed through with a slash that nearly decapitated the ogrillon.

"Thanks big lady," Minsc said with his ever-enthusiastic smile.

While they had been finishing off the ogrillon's armed figures had turned the corner of the mountain path ahead, and they were quickly approaching. Looking up and blinking away some blood that had splattered her face Ashura saw them: six shaggy creatures with large weapons marching down from the fortress in a loosely military formation. Though they were stooped forward and their legs were bent in a way no human's could, they were each a good seven feet tall. Their bodies were roughly shaped like men with the heads of dogs, every single creature barring its teeth. Their short-haired coats ranged in hue from black to gold to a redish-orange, and every coat was speckled with large spots of one color or another.

Here were the gnolls at last. Many simply called the creatures dog-men, though the bestiaries claimed that they were a humanoid form of hyenas, a dog-like animal that roams the great grasslands of the Shaar far to the south.

They wore no clothing and what little armor they had looked motley and improvised; a leather guard tied to a forearm here or a thigh there, along with harnesses that held lacquered strips to their chests. All favored long pole-weapons; though as with the armor each was a little different: poleaxes, spears, warmaces and warhammers that looked to be in poor repair and most likely looted.

Forming up the gnolls stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking a spot where the mountain path narrowed between high rocks. Minsc took a deep breath and hefted his dripping sword with both hands, pointing it forward. The rest of the group had crossed the bridge now, and were fanning out; all except for Edwin that is. He fearlessly strode past them all and up the mountain path towards the gnolls, and as he passed Ashura noticed that he was twirling his fingers and humming to himself.

"These," Minsc bellowed, "are the dog-men who spirited Dynaheir away! To rescue her we must cut a swath through their ranks! We must-"

A pace away from the towering gnolls Edwin whirled around, pointed a finger at Minsc and said: "I think not." A shimmer that resembled a heat-wave had developed at the tip of his forefinger, and as he spoke it grew and flew forward, straight into Minsc's midsection. The faintly visible bolt struck with the force of a battering ram, throwing the ranger off his feet and over the edge of the cliff behind him. He sailed out into the open air, legs kicking and arms wheeling, and Ashura could have sworn she heard a faint, indignant ' _squeak_ ' before he fell like a stone and disappeared from view. A splash from the river far below followed.

Nearly the moment that Minsc went flying Imoen drew an arrow and loosed at Edwin as she shouted: "I knew it!" but a familiar purple barrier bloomed to life around the mage as the missile arced. Edwin ignored the arrow, which bounced away harmlessly, and with a word he parted the line of gnolls and walked by. Once he was past they instantly fell back into a line and braced themselves.

At the same time Branwen let out a warcry that started as the word "Traitor!" and turned into a feral howl, then charged. There was a glowing blue corona around her warhammer and a faint shimmer at her silhouette; the glow of a protective prayer.

For perhaps the space of a breath Ashura hesitated. Edwin had just played his hand, just as he said he would. What should she-

But no. _No time to think_. The damn priestess was going to get skewered on those six weapons if she didn't act fast. So Ashura bent forward and rushed ahead, charging past Branwen almost instantly and smashing into the enemy line.

She quickly realized that being twice as big and fast as normal had its advantages. A stab from a gnoll's trident that normally would have seemed quick as a viper felt awkward and sluggish to Ashura as she easily dodged around and slashed aside the shaft of a halberd with an overhand chop. Her speed let her dance past their weapons, her size gave her reach, and in the next motion she drove her left-hand sword through one of the gnoll's eyes. Jaws snapped and slobber flew, but she backed and wove around teeth and steel, avoiding her foes as her swords struck again and again. A shaggy body slumped against Ashura, dying shudders running their frantic course as her sword worried the deep wound it had created, and with a grunt and a shove she pushed the dying gnoll off and slammed him into another foe, toppling the creature over.

One more slash through a yelping gnoll's neck and she was clear of the floundering line. Up ahead stood a wooden barricade at the foot of stone steps that wound up to the fortress. More gnolls stood at attention beneath and beside the logs, their shaggy bodies turning aside as Edwin marched between them and up the steps.

After the red wizard she ran, her strides long and quick, almost leaping up the path. The gnolls at the barricade formed up and raised their weapons, and she plowed into them without hesitation. For a few furiously pounding heartbeats her world was a whirlwind of fur, steel and blood. Then she was clear and running up the steps, higher and higher above the jagged rocks.

Gnolls howled and charged down the stairway, greeting her with the tips of their spears. She zipped past a spear-thrust and ran the first beast she met through. Releasing her deeply imbedded sword she grabbed the shaft of another spear and yanked, pulling its owner off the steps and over the edge of the cliff. The dog-man yelped and cried as he bounced from rock to rock, tumbling fifty feet or more before he came to rest.

Turning from the cliff's edge Ashura yanked her sword free from the dead gnoll at her feet and pushed onward up the broad stone steps. More gnolls were spilling out of the fortress ahead. She caught another glimpse of the billowing red robes rising up a final, more narrow flight of stairs that led between the walls of the fortress, then her vision was filled with fur bodies and gleaming weapons.

They were large and fast and vicious but she was larger and faster. Kicks and pommel-blows sent gnolls plunging off the stairs and into the abyss. Stabs and slashes made bodies shudder and filled the air with pained howl and the smell of bile and blood.

She felt the unnatural speed she had possessed falter as she began the final climb up the more narrow stairs, but thankfully the enlargement spell remained. Two heads taller than even the largest gnoll, she pushed and bullied her way through, shoving the closely packed bodies off the steps to be dashed on the rocks below. When she struck with her swords she always pressed in close and stabbed deep, making the reach of their massive but awkward weapons meaningless. The tactic earned her a few bites on the chest and shoulders, but the gnolls went away with little more than a mouthful of chainlinks, their bites dulled by the shimmering magical shield her ring provided.

Ascending the final step she towered over another creature and slashed it down with a strike from both swords at once. She had to stoop to pass through the walls of fortress.

Once she stepped inside it was clear that the gnolls' layer was a ruin. The area she stood in now had once supported a roof but it had rotted and fallen away ages ago, leaving a small maze of uneven walls over a weathered stone floor. From gaps in those walls to either side more gnolls emerged: five on the right and six on the left, the way before her blocked by a wall.

Stretching to her full height Ashura marched towards the pack of dog-men on the far right side and…found that her full height wasn't so impressive anymore. The gnolls grew before her, looming up to a full two heads taller than she, and the thick swords in her hands that had once matched the reach of their weapons were mere gladiuses again. Behind her at the archway two more of the creatures ducked and entered the courtyard: gnolls that she had pushed her way past in her pursuit of Edwin.

_ Nine fucking Hells! _ She had pushed and pressed as far as the magical enhancements would take her, and it would have been a good tactic if there had been fewer creatures to fight, but this was a bloody army. And now she was surrounded, trapped and far behind enemy lines, just a short girl with a pair of short swords.

The gnolls were approaching with caution, long weapons extended protectively. They weren't yet convinced that the whirling giantess had become less of a threat. _Good._ Ashura took a deep breath and began a silent prayer to Talos.

_ Dear Storm Lord… _

After edging around the broken walls the gnolls were fanning out.

_ …god of tearing shit up… _

The teeth of every last dog-man was barred, slather dripping to the floor.

_ …please grant me the strength to tear some shit up in your name. So let it be. _

With a canine snarl of her own Ashura rushed towards the wall of spears and halberds. She used both of her blades to swat weapons aside as she pushed forward, but she felt a sharp sting in her left arm before she had closed the distance with the nearest gnoll. Her momentum carried her sword cleanly through the creature's chestguard and body beneath, not stopping until the weapon was hilt-deep. The gnoll threw its head back and howled before sharply bending forward and clamping its teeth down on Ashura's shoulder. Bits of torn chainmail fell to the stones between them as the creature turned its head and worried the wound. They struggled there a moment, Ashura twisting her sword and screaming in pain as the gnoll chomped with its teeth until the beast's strength finally gave out and it slumped and fell away from her.

Before she could catch a breath or turn something sharp and heavy struck her in the back and sent her to the floor face-first. The ringing of chainmail links falling to the stone sounded all around her. Through bleary eyes Ashura saw the lower paws of the nearest gnoll right in front of her and lashed out with her left-hand sword. The blade cut through fur and sinew and bone, taking the creature off its feet and down to her level. A quick crawl brought her to the fallen beast and she drove her right sword through its body, pressing close as she did, grappling and rolling.

She managed to twist under the gnoll's thrashing body as the other creatures brought their weapons down, and used its bulk as a shield that took the brunt of the slashing poleaxes and stabbing spears. A breath later the shaggy body was ripped away from her; removed by a kick. The gnoll who had knocked the corpse aside towered over Ashura, poleax held high. Before the weapon fell towards her skull she lashed out with an empty hand, ghostfire flaring and flying across the gap between them. The bolt of energy stuck the gnoll in the chest with the desired effect: the creature stumbled and sank to one knee as its strength was drawn into Ashura's body. She felt wounds close; strength return.

As the stolen vitality coursed through her Ashura launched to her feet and drove her sword through the staggered gnoll. A snarl to her left gave her some warning, but when she turned and raised a sword to block her weapon was easily dashed aside by a two-handed warmace. The mace whirled around with dazzling speed and slammed into the side of Ashura's helmet, a shimmer appearing briefly before her eyes as the weapon was slowed by her magical barrier. The blow was still firm enough to send her stumbling drunkenly until her back pressed against the ruined wall. The gnoll advanced, barely visible through the flashes and stars before Ashura's eyes. It hefted the warmace for another swing.

Dropping her right-hand sword Ashura swung her hand up between herself and the gnoll. Once again the life-draining energy burst from her palm and the trick worked just as well the second time as the first. The throbbing at her temple dissipated as her head-wound closed, and at the same time the gnoll looked queasy and lost its footing. It was enough of an opening for Ashura to rush forward and slash at the creature's neck again and again until it fell to the stone.

Howls and snarls echoed through the ruins behind her, followed by pained yips. Imoen and Branwen were hitting their back-ranks. _Good._

Ashura turned and stepped around a ruined wall. Beyond lay more open stone courtyard, with two large, round pits in the center. As she passed the first pit an intense stench struck her, and peering down revealed hundreds of moldering bones that covered the floor in shallow piles, speckled here and there with fresh, mangled corpses. Every body had been stripped of all clothing and possessions, and most seemed to be the blue goblin-like creatures that were common in this region, but here and there lay hobgoblins, and there were perhaps four corpses that could have once been human. At a glance none of the bodies seemed to have Dynaheir's olive skin or long brown hair, but all were badly mangled by a combination of carrion animals and the manner in which the gnolls had slain them. A wooden plank hung over the edge of the pit, stained ochre and orange with old dried blood. This seemed to be either an execution ground, a place of ritual sacrifice, or both.

Looking up from the carnage Ashura caught a glimpse of a brighter shade of red. There was Edwin, at the pit on the far side of the courtyard, walking down a crude stairway made from raised logs that ringed the hole.

Ashura made her way around the edge to follow, but once again her path was blocked when several more dog-men fanned out into view. Among them was the largest gnoll yet. _Great_.

* * *

As the cries of furious gnolls echoed off the walls of the pit Edwin impatiently thumbed through a small leatherbound tome. There had been several books in the witch's possession but this and here spellbook were the true prizes to be found. No doubt what he held in his hand was some sort of journal or logbook that contained reports the Hathran meant to deliver to her superiors. It was written in cipher of course, and a complicated one at that. The letters were recognizable runes of old Rus, but they were a mismatched garble of strung-together consonants without spacing or punctuation.

Up above at the lip of the pit the sounds of battle raged on, steel ringing against steel, and Edwin pondered which way the storm would turn. If his assistance had not been enough the dark haired girl's death would be a shame. Of course if everything went just right she would be the only survivor and they could strike some sort of deal. The bounty for the witch would raise his status in the enclave, and the warrior-girl seemed a pliable sort of mercenary. Surely he could convince her to work for them, preferably as a personal bodyguard.

Looking up from the indecipherable book Edwin studied the imprisoned witch across from him. This pit was only used to keep live prisoners, but there was still a sour stench in the air. Dynaheir was bound by rusty iron manacles to a pole at the center of the pit, a ragged gag between her lips. It seemed that the gnolls had not made any true attempts at torture, and Edwin suspected that they feared what would happen if they removed the gag. Regardless she was not in particularly good shape: her purple dress was torn in many places and portions of the ragged garment were moldering and losing their color. Beneath the rips there was dry, crusted blood from wounds she had sustained during her capture, and doubtless standing here through two nights of rainstorms had not been good for her. Her face was gaunt and weary, malnourished and dehydrated.

_ Good.  _ The promise of food and water to a desperate prisoner could be a powerful interrogation tool. The clang of steel above, however, reminded Edwin that he was probably running out of time.

With his free hand the red mage stroked his moustache thoughtfully. Were he a more powerful mage he could teleport his prisoner away with him, but alas, as it was this was the only chance he'd probably get at an interrogation. With a flick of his wrist Edwin magically drew the gag from the witch's mouth. "This is no simple dejemma for you, is it Hathran?" he began.

" _Viales-_ " the witch launched into a magical incantation, a glow beginning to form around her. It was stifled before she could get another word out when Edwin gestured and the gag was pushed back into her mouth. With the spell disrupted the glow abruptly died.

Edwin gave the witch a patronizing roll of his eyes. Of course she would run through every spell she could before speaking. If there was more time it could have even been a useful part of the game; Edwin casually making her waste her spells and dash her hopes. As it was she was buying herself time. _Frustrating_. That morning Edwin had prepared a powerful fire spell and he was seeing little alternative to cutting his loses and using it. Funny that he would end up burning the witch at a stake; you always read of such things in storybooks.

"Don't expect your bodyguard to sweep in and rescue you," Edwin said. "He brought a few fools along with him on this doomed mission but I've already disposed of him. A battering ram spell to the stomach sent him plunging off a cliff. Look into my eyes, you can tell I do not lie. And we will have all the information we need of your mission from this book easily enough. Lasla, one of my colleges here on the coast, is a skilled diviner." With another gesture Edwin slipped the gag down once again, ready to replace it should Dynaheir attempt another spell. "Your choice is simply whether you wish to tell me of your mission now and be granted a quick death or linger in this pit for a tenday in my company."

The witch was silent, her large brown eyes hard and resolved. Edwin knew his threats were hollow at the moment, with the battle still raging above. _Ah well._ Either the storm would pass by or it would not.

A massive, shaggy body pitched over the lip of the pit and hit the ground hard a few paces from Edwin, letting out a muted yelp. The red wizard pivoted towards the fallen gnoll, stepping back. It had obviously broken a few bones in the fall and was moving and breathing but only just; stunned. It was the largest of the dog-men too, with red and white markings on its harness that he recognized. _The leader of the Bright Tooth Pack_. Well, there was his answer.

With quick strides a woman rushed down the log stairs into the pit. Edwin recognized Ashura by her twin shortswords but little else. Her hair was slicked back and soaked through with fresh dark blood, and her face was caked in red and black. Her armor and doublet were drenched and smeared as well, the chainmail torn wide open at the shoulder, back and belly. The black-stained metal hung loosely, and really there was hardly enough mail left to protect anything, though her clothing beneath was far more intact. A sign that the armor and magical ring had done their jobs.

Leaping down the final steps Ashura reached the fallen gnoll commander and plunged her swords into his body, twisting her weapons until the kicks and struggles of the creature became feeble death throws. She leaned heavily onto her swords and over the body then, trying to catch her breath in long, ragged wheezes.

"I thought," Edwin began, "that you would be the first to arrive (though that haste spell was meant to help as well. Can't be too careful.)"

Ashura looked up from her kill with wild eyes. She shoved her way up and into a fighting stance and ripped her swords from the dead gnoll's body. Above there was still howling and singing steel as the other two women fought their way through the last of the gnolls.

"Our deal?" Edwin asked.

She glared at him for a time. Her lips twisted up, ready to spew all sorts of nasty accusations, but in the end she remained silent. Finally, her head bent forward in the slightest of nods.

"Then this will be over momentarily." Edwin gestured towards the flight of logs. "Watch for your companions. It would be helpful if you can distract them but I won't insist." He stretched his long fingers out, recalling the fire spell.

Though her gag was gone Dynaheir didn't say a word. She watched the scene before her with narrow, impassive eyes. No begging for her life, no cursing. For the space of a breath or two Ashura's eyes met Dynaheir's, then she gripped her swords tightly and turned her back. Facing the winding log steps Ashura looked up and saw-

"Raaahhhrrrggghhh!"

-a nearly seven-foot-tall berserker of Rashemen flying down the stairs towards her, his lacquered armor dripping wet, his six-foot-long greatsword held high and his eyes full of blind rage. Instinctively she lifted her own sword to block but in that instant she realized it would be nowhere near enough and frantically scrambled to the side to avoid Minsc's descending weapon.

There was a scraping of steel when the swords met, and numbing pain shot through Ashura's arm as her weapon was knocked aside and the greatsword went by, less than a finger's length from her face. Before she could react her breath left her and her body doubled over from a pommel blow to the stomach. She bent right into Minsc's elbow, which smashed into her face and sent her flying backwards.

For a big guy he was _fast_.

Ashura's limbs were limp when she fell to the dirt at the bottom of the pit. Minsc could have finished her there with a swipe of his sword, but she had merely been an obstacle in his path, and his shadow simply passed over her.

Blinking back bright spots and swimming vision, Ashura tried to push up off of her back, elbows scraping in the dirt. Edwin had begun to chant something the moment Minsc had appeared, and now light flashed from his position at the corner of Ashura's vision. The flash was followed instantly by the earsplitting sound of steel grinding against something rough and unyielding.

A heartbeat later as Ashura found her feet there was another screech and a shower of sparks, accompanied by a howl of rage from Minsc. There was still a sword in Ashura's left hand but all she did was turn until her back was to the steps and begin to shrink away. She felt blood trickling over her mouth and there was a fierce stinging in her nose.

Edwin's skin and clothing had all turned a dark grey color crisscrossed with stony indentations, and he seemed bulkier than he had been before, though his motions were fluid. The second skin of stone that protected him already bore two long, deep gouges where bits of rock were flaking off.

Hoisting his sword Minsc brought it down again as Edwin barked out another spell, calling a shimmer of faint blue energy into the air between his hands. The greatsword swept down and struck the barrier, which slowed the blade but didn't prevent the impact. The blow sent Edwin reeling back and pressed him to the far wall, barely on his feet, as more bits of stone flakes fell to the dirt. He scowled, eyes searching the room as the berserker advanced on him.

The next spell out of Edwin's mouth was quick and simple. At the wall behind him a pinprick of light appeared and instantly grew into a human-sized pool. It seemed liquid at first glance; though the more one looked the more it appeared to be a thousand shards of reflective glass colliding. Edwin simply backed into the pool and it swallowed him up and closed down into a point of light that winked out.

With another ear-splitting screech Minsc's sword struck the wall where Edwin had stood. Seeing no foe the berserker whirled around and Ashura's heart caught in her throat as she hopped up a couple of steps, her sword raised.

Minsc ignored her, advancing towards the chained witch instead. He raised his sword. Had he lost all sense? _Is he going to-_

Sparks flew and metal screamed as the greatsword hacked through one of the chains that held Dynaheir to the pole. Another slash and her arms were free, broken chains dangling from the manacles at her wrists. Minsc drove his sword into the floor and caught the witch as she slumped forward.

Instantly the fire and fury seemed to leave Minsc's eyes, and he said something in a tongue Ashura did not know to Dynaheir, his tone sorrowful. She replied in the same language, voice rough and head shaking weakly. As they talked and Minsc passed the witch his waterskin Ashura backed a few more steps up the logs, her sword still interposed. She sensed a presence behind her and turned slightly. Branwen and Imoen stood just above her on the spiraling steps. She wondered how long they had been there, watching the scene.

Once Dynaheir was standing steady on her feet and massaging her sore arms Minsc turned towards Ashura and she found herself taking a deep breath and lifting her sword higher, but Minsc seemed to be seeing her for the first time. "Ladies!" he bellowed. "You have all made it through to witness fair Dynaheir's rescue. All but that treacherous wizard." He glanced up and around the edge of the pit. "And if I or Boo ever catch sight of him again he shall feel my WRATH!" The last word echoed through the empty ruins.

Branwen and Imoen were descending into the pit now and Ashura had no choice but to walk down ahead of them on the narrow path, log by log. Dynaheir studied her coldly, silent for now. Branwen's armored scales were battered and missing in places but she seemed unhurt beneath, and Imoen looked untouched, having managed to keep the gnolls a bowshot away.

"You're hurt," Minsc stated as he loomed over Ashura.

She looked aside, the back of her hand wiping a stream of blood away from her nose. "Yeah," she said. "You kind of…"

"Me?" Minsc asked with a confused look on his face. The little brown rodent he kept as a pet climbed from his sleeve and onto one of his shoulder-guards, close to an ear. Its beady little eyes watched Ashura silently for a moment. "Ah," Minsc said in realization. "Boo says that when I rushed down the steps to rescue my witch you were standing at the bottom, in my way and doing nothing. So I had to push you aside. No doubt that villainous wizard had put you under some sort of spell."

_ Actually you nearly split me from cap to groin with that greatsword of yours, _ Ashura thought but held her tongue. Instead she glanced over at Dynaheir, waiting for condemnation.

Instead the witch nodded slightly. "Indeed. She must have been under some sort of spell," the witch agreed, though the look she gave Ashura was cold as an ice dragon's breath.

Ashura shrugged. "Guess so. Sorry." It felt a bit feeble and she found herself studying her boots, but the moment passed. Soon Imoen was trying to pick the locks of Dynaheir's manacles and Branwen was tending to the witch's wounds. With that done the rest walked up and out of the pit. Ashura was the last to climb the log steps out into the light, her gaze lingering on her new ring before she did. She had come out somewhat ahead, all things considered. _At least until the witch decides to throw a fireball at my backside. Or the red mage shows up again._

Well, it was all the damned ranger's fault for not even offering a reward for his precious witch. It was a poor excuse, she knew. But she clung to it.

* * *

For Ashura the return journey through the Cloudpeaks had been tense. They all expected to see the bright red robes again, and she had been sure to stay as far from Dynaheir as she could. As her, Imoen and the witch sat beside the campfire the first night of their journey the uncomfortable mood in the air was made worse by something else: throaty grunts and cries echoing from the forest; far away, but not far _enough_ away. Despite Edwin still being loose it seemed _someone_ was in the mood to celebrate their victory. The three women fiddled their way through their evening routines, stiff-backed and pretending not to hear.

Along with her journal Dynaheir's spellbook had been taken by the red wizard, but her remaining bags contained enough scrolls and empty books for her to transcribe what she had memorized and add some new spells, consulting a bit with Imoen along the way. She was hard at work with her new book now, the tome opened wide and pressed close to her face. As trilling moans in a thick Norheim accent reached their ears she cringed, visibly embarrassed and obviously trying to bury her head in the book.

Imoen on the other hand was sharpening her dagger by the fire and trying unsuccessfully to suppress a series of giggles. Ashura had kind of assumed that Minsc and Dynaheir were a couple when they first met, but apparently not. She didn't seem particularly jealous either. Just embarrassed and annoyed. Those seemed to be emotions Minsc brought out a lot in her.

The cries finally seemed to die away and Ashura absentmindedly poked a log in the fire pit, sending up a trail of lazy cinders. Maybe they had finally finished-

And then the loudest cry yet echoed through the trees, audible enough to hear the words. "Ohhh…Myyy…Heeeeeeeeerrrrrrroooooooo!" the northerner's voice cried out, crystal clear in the still night air.

Imoen burst out laughing and doubled over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I worry a little that the way I ended up resolving this storyline might come off as a bit convenient and contrived, but it just felt like the right place to take it. Minsc is this little story-arc's *Hero,* after all.
> 
> Also, I swear when I started writing this story the last thing on my mind was pairing Branwen and Minsc. It just sort of happened.


	15. A Cutthroat Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Imoen steps up and shows us how good aligned protagonists do it

_ "Storm: Tis good to get into a little sisterly fight every now and then. It helps work off a century or so of tension." _

-Nalen Anthras, _Wrath of the Seven Sisters_ , Act IV Scene V.

* * *

"So are you going to tell me why you've been so edgy lately?" Imoen asked.

It was late afternoon and the early summer sun was shining brilliantly off the polished granite obelisk in the center of the Beregost town square. Around the pillar's feet farmers and craftsmen were selling their goods out the backs of carts or behind crude wooden stalls while children used the marker as an obstacle in an ongoing game of tag. Pipe music could be heard wafting from a nearby tavern, and out on the dirt-and-gravel path a young man was juggling three colorful rubber balls.

"Edgy?" Ashura asked before shrugging. "I've had plenty of reason to be edgy lately."

"Not really," Imoen countered. "We just completed a trip where somehow _no one_ ended up dying a horrible, grisly death. Well, unless you count the gnolls. And some hobgoblins. And that bandit guy who's head got split open by Minsc. And that entire village of blue goblins that Dynaheir burned down with a couple of fireballs. That was a real shame. I kept saying 'we mean no harm' but the little buggers just kept attacking." She shook her head and tried to remember what she had started talking about. "But other than that no deaths. It's cause for celebration if you ask me."

"I guess." Honestly she was more inclined to celebrate the fact that the witch and her bodyguard had finally left their company, heading north and west to Candlekeep. Ashura had had her fill of the Rashemi woman's accusing eyes and the warrior's innocent, easy smile.

"Something happened between you and that wizard didn't it?" Imoen asked. "And I'm not talking about the sort of thing that went between Minsc and Branwen. He said something to you when you were alone right? What was it?"

Ashura frowned and studied her boots. Really it would be a relief to come clean with Imoen. In the sixteen years the two had known each other they'd never kept secrets, and now felt like a crummy time to start. Branwen was within earshot though, browsing the stalls. Ashura knew that Imoen would disagree vocally over the deal she had made with Edwin, but Branwen was likely to disagree with her hammer.

Giving the priestess a pointed look Ashura whispered: "I'd rather not talk about it right now."

Imoen didn't take the hint. "I'm gonna wrangle it out of you one way or another," she stated with a grin.

In the end Ashura was saved by the juggler, who had begun to saunter towards the pair as they talked, rubber balls still lazily arching from hand to hand as he approached. He was a strikingly handsome young man, with wide, warm blue eyes, short brown hair and an easy smile. His outfit was simple but well made: a short leather coat over a sturdy cloth shirt and loose leather trousers, all in browns and muted yellows. Not exactly the flamboyant outfit of a performer, but it suited him.

"Greetings," the juggler said, giving Ashura and Imoen a brief glance before his eyes returned to the three spinning balls. "You look quite a bit more well-armed than the rest of the shoppers here," he noted.

Once they had reached Beregost Ashura had gone to the smithy and had her armor repaired and improved a bit. Her chainmail tunic was freshly mended now and she had added some steel forearm and calf guards for good measure. As she had waited on the repairs she had examined suits of enchanted chainmail on display at Thunderhammer's, but they were still priced far beyond anything she could afford.

Imoen was a bit less heavily equipped, having forsaken a lot of her black leathers because they could interfere with spellcasting. She had kept a few straps of armor that she strategically wore over her padded purple tunic and trousers, along with bracers and leather padding at the knees and elbows. She had also gotten in the habit of carrying her bow everywhere she went, hung over a shoulder along with a quiver of arrows that poked out at angle from beneath her purple cloak.

"Yeah," Ashura replied to the juggler suspiciously. "We're well armed and armored. What of it?"

The young man cringed a bit, catching and stilling his juggling toys and giving the women his full attention. "I didn't mean to offend," he said with a hurt look. "I'm just supposed to be on the lookout for mercenaries passing through town. My boss is looking to hire some."

"Hm," Ashura grunted, still watching the juggler carefully. If this was another bloody assassin… "Well, that's fine then. We do happen to be mercenaries in-between jobs."

The juggler perked up. "Then I believe I have a pretty proposal for you. My boss needs bodyguards for what's likely to just be one or two days, and she's offering a hundred gold per guard. So uh…three hundred gold for all three of you."

"That's a lot of coin," Ashura noted. "I take it this is a high risk, high reward sort of deal?"

The young man nodded. "Indeed. I won't lie to you: my boss has some very bad men after her and your job will be to fight them off." He slipped the rubber balls away and extended a hand. "My name is Garrick Anthras by the way. Of the Dale Wind…urm…well formerly of the Dale Wind Troubadours."

Ashura and Imoen exchanged a look and Ashura's hand shot to the hilt of her sword. "You worked with Nimbul?" she asked, her voice icy.

Garrick didn't seem to notice the implied threat. He actually looked a bit forlorn as he nodded. "Yeah. We lost our prop-wagon and got run out of town when that madman burned down half the Nashkel fair. We mostly went our separate ways after that, though I stuck with Mistress Silke."

Imoen snapped her fingers. "Now I know why yer so familiar," she said. "You played Elminster right? I knew it was a young guy under the beard and those eyebrows but I didn't realize you had that much of a baby-face."

"Hehe," Garrick chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Thanks, I guess. I was pretty proud of that role." He switched to a deeper, more commanding voice. "'What the four-hundred-and-fifth layer of the Abyss lacks in hospitality it makes up for in color. I believe something from every shade of the rainbow has tried to kill me at least once.'"

Imoen chuckled. "Yup, that's the Elminster voice."

"I suppose you don't recognize us?" Ashura asked.

Garrick shook his head. "Sorry to admit it, but no. There were so many people at the fair."

"That's fine." Ashura reached out and shook his hand. "I'm Nina." It was a name from a book she had always liked back in Candlekeep. If the book was to be believed Nina had even lived for a time in the Abyss, but she put about as much stock in that as stories of Elminster.

"I'm Imoen." Another handshake.

"And I am Branwen," the warpriestess stated, having rejoined her companions a moment earlier. She gave Garrick a firm handshake that made him cringe slightly.

"So what are the details of this job?" Ashura asked.

* * *

"So, my little Garrick, these are the only mercenaries you could find?" There was a tinge of disappointment in the dark-haired woman's flighty, sing-song voice. "I suppose they will do."

"Sorry to disappoint," Ashura muttered as she took a seat. Garrick had warned them that his boss, Silke Rosena, was a bit of 'a barbed-tongued prima donna'. She was a striking woman certainly, with a heart-shaped face that accentuated her large emerald eyes, and though she was dressed all in blacks her outfit seemed more lavish than Garrick's: silks topped and lined with sable and large dark feathers.

"It's fine," Silke said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I was simply hoping for a pack of burly men rather than the amazon-brigade, but you seem armed and armored well enough for the job."

"I remember you!" Imoen blurted out. "You played Princess Layanna in A Waltz with Brigands."

Silke inclined her head. "Indeed. And The Simbul in our little production of Elminster in the Abyss. Neither were challenging roles but t'was quite a whirlwind to switch between them on the hour: to first inhabit the skin of the commanding and implacable witch-queen, then turn into a meek, cowering girl who gradually finds her inner strength over the course of her journey through guile, strength of arms and her…femininity. But you did not come here to learn of the thespian's process I'll wager," Silke added with another dismissive wave of her hand.

'Here' was a well-lit corner table in the Burning Wizard tavern, a cozy little place made of sturdy, roughhewn hardwood. The alehouse boasted the widest variety of drinks in Beregost, two stories of small, tightly packed bedrooms above the common area, and little else. The food in particular was notoriously bad.

"Nope," Ashura agreed. "We didn't. There was something about protecting you from thugs?"

"That there was," Silke replied, "and a hundred gold coins for each of you once the thugs are dealt with. Garrick, would you be a dear and fetch us a round of drinks?" Once they had been asked what refreshments they would prefer and Garrick was sent to the bar Silke turned to her new hires and asked: "Have any of you ever been to Feldepost's inn here in town?"

The three women shook their heads.

"I thought not. It's a very lavish, expensive establishment that caters to the wealthiest of clientele. No offense." She giggled. "But there is a dark side to the place. Feldepost, the proprietor, is a powerful and ruthless crimelord. I incurred his wrath recently when I refused to do an evening's performance at his inn. He offered so little pay and was so _forceful_ and demanding about it. Had I realized what sort of man he was perhaps I would have just swallowed my pride but…" She shook her head, a pained look on her face.

"In any case," Silke went on, "after declining his offer I learned that Feldepost has hired some thugs to 'make an example' of me. I barely escaped their cudgels on the street last night, and I've been hiding in this tavern ever since. Oh it was most horrid; they approached me in an alley and began to say the most vile-"

"Look," Ashura cut her off, "you're paying a lot. The entire sob-story isn't necessary. Just tell us how to deal with the thugs."

The forlorn look on Silke's face vanished, and instead she smiled. "Simple and direct. That's good. Send ruffians after ruffians."

Ashura grimaced. _This woman sure loves the sound of her own voice._

"The plan?" Imoen asked helpfully.

"Ah yes," Silke said, "the plan." She gave Garrick a nod of thanks as he returned with a tray of clay cups and glass mugs. Taking a sip of wine Silke continued: "Feldepost's thugs know that I'm hiding here but don't want to attack me somewhere so public. Once I'm on the street, however, I'm sure they'll pounce. After dark will work even better. So once the sun has set we go for a walk, and when the ruffians appear you kill them and collect your pay. Simple enough. There are three of them and three of you, and when last I saw them they were poorly armed."

"You're sure they'll show up?" Ashura asked. "Having guards might give them second thoughts."

"I'll walk a bit ahead of the four of you," Silke said. "Just make sure to rush in when they approach. And strike fast. I believe one of them is a mage. If this plan does not work I'll think of a more direct way to take the fight to them, but I'm confident they will appear."

Ashura shrugged and settled in at the table. By her estimation they had about an hour until sunset, so they sat there sipping and talking. Silke offered them another round the moment Branwen finished her cup of mead. It seemed odd to ply hired swords with drink just before a battle, but maybe these bards just didn't understand how to stop partying. For her part Ashura just took a few tentative sips from her tankard of Tanagyr's Stout. While they waited Garrick and Silke filled their ears with tales of the wondrous places their tours had taken them: from Neverwinter in the north to Eshpurta the Shield City at the southern end of Amn, if the two were to be believed.

Once the light outside the smoke-stained windows of the tavern had dimmed they rose and filed out into the streets. Silke took the lead with quick, self-assured strides and the rest scrambled to follow at the cautious distance they had agreed upon. They had to hurry even faster when the actress passed the town obelisk and turned sharply to the north, then again to the east, walking closely beside a row of tightly packed houses. The growing darkness threatened to swallow the figure in black ahead of them, and Ashura feared that Silke would overdo it and lose them entirely. At a fenced-in vegetable garden Silke turned once again, leading them south into a narrow alley that ran behind the Red Sheaf Inn.

When Ashura turned the corner to follow she nearly stumbled into Silke, who had stopped and backed away slightly from the far end of the alley. There in the dim twilight three hooded men slowly approached, staggered a bit in the tight passageway. "There they are!" Silke hissed as she raised an accusing finger. "Feldepost's thugs! Quickly now!" Imoen and Branwen had stepped around the corner now as well, bow and hammer both out and ready, and with another step forward Ashura swung her swords free, one after the other. Just like the actress had said. _A simple job at last._

"Greetings Silke," one of the thugs said in a cheery tone.

"There's no need for all these guards you know," a second thug added. "We brought the jewelry just like you asked and we'll deal fair."

"Silke?" Garrick asked somewhere behind them. "What's going on? These men are unarmed."

"Don't listen to their lies!" Silke shouted over her partner's objections. "They're trying to confuse you. Attack now! Before the spellcaster strikes!"

Ashura nodded and began to stomp forward. "They're as good as dead," she said.

"Shurra STOP!" Imoen shouted as loudly as she could. She had slipped in close, and the assault on Ashura's ear made her pause if nothing else did. "This isn't right!" Imoen continued. "Look at them!"

"Ims, we have a job here!" Ashura shot back, whirling towards the three men at the far side of the alley. "And no time to debate." Two of the thugs were raising their hands into the air. Now which was the spellcaster?

Somewhere beside her she heard Imoen let out a frustrated growl. The next thing Ashura knew her legs were slipping out from under her and her vision was filled with a faintly starry sky high overhead. _What the Hells?_ She was falling! A shock ran through her body when her back hit the cobbles, along with a loud _thunk_ and the jingling of her armor. Above her she could see Imoen shooting to her feet, pivoting with her bow in hand and drawing the string back with a creek, an arrow knocked and aimed over Ashura's prone body and at Silke.

"I'm no assassin!" Imoen shouted. "And we're not killing these me. Now get the hell out of here!"

"Bah," Silke scoffed. "I knew Garrick wouldn't find decent help."

"We _are_ decent," Imoen growled back. "And that's why we're _not_ going to murder these men."

Silke shook her head slightly, opening her mouth as if to say something. Instead of speaking she flicked her fingers and something appeared between them: a thin blue-and-white rod with a stylized electrical pattern running along the side and a tip that came to a zig-zaging point. Something sizzled and crackled at the end.

_ Wand! _ Ashura realized, frantically trying to push herself to her feet. First she heard the thump of Imoen's bowstring, but then she was knocked flat on her back again by a blast of deafening thunder as her vision was overwhelmed by white-hot light. There were secondary crackles and booms all through the alley as the bolt of electricity carved a hole in the wall and ricocheted from there, zipping down the passageway and forcing the three men at the other end to scatter and dive.

As she blinked back dazzling motes and flashes Ashura began to see smoke, much of it rising from the spot where Imoen had staggered backwards. There was wide-eyed fear and shock on the girl's face and her hand was clutching her chest, her back near the biggest hole in the stone wall. _Oh gods!_ She'd been hit!

There was no sensation of turning from Imoen and rising to her feet, nor of gripping her swords tight and dashing the three paces it took to close the distance with Silke. Ashura was simply on her back one moment staring in horror at her injured friend, then she was standing in front of the bard, screaming: "You bitch!" and ramming her swords through the other woman's chest. It was all instant and reflexive.

Silke had stumbled back and gripped Imoen's arrow, which protruded from her chest, before Ashura charged. With her other hand Silke held onto the lightning wand and attempted to launch another bolt, but two swords striking with sufficient force to lift the actress clear off the ground was enough to send the wand flying from her grip.

For a few moments Ashura just stood there like that, taking deep breaths and hardly noticing the strain on her arms as she held Silke high and impaled, feet kicking and quickly loosing strength. There was a mix of rage and agony on the actress's face that slowly drained away as her skin grew pale. When Ashura finally felt the pressure on her arms she turned her swords downward swiftly and threw Silke to the cobbles. There was an eruption of blood from the wounds in the bard's chest that she didn't even attempt to hold back, her arms flopping around limply.

Ashura turned a sword downward and ran Silke through one more time, just to make sure. Then she whirled around. "Imoen!" she shouted, rushing across the alley. The girl was kneeling on the cobbles by the burnt wall now, a hand still on her chest. Branwen was already there beside her, trying to remove the hand and administer some healing, but when she did she uncovered…nothing. No smoking hole. No wound.

"I'm uh….fine," Imoen noted with surprise.

_ How could that be?  _ She had been right in the path of the lightning bolt. It took a moment for the reason to dawn on Ashura: the electrically resistant boots from Mulahey's layer! _Guess they've finally been tested._ It was only then that something else occurred to her. "Imoen," Ashura stated, "you knocked me off my feet."

"Yup," Imoen stated unapologetically. "It was the only way to keep you from doing something stupid.

"Pfft." Unfortunately her friend was probably right.

* * *

Between Garrick and the three strangers Ashura had been about to kill, they eventually put most of the story together. Feldepost was not any sort of crime lord, simply a merchant and innkeep, and the three men were not hired goons; they were a musical troupe that had been playing at Feldepost's for the past three days. They called themselves the Berdusk Brothers (they were actually two cousins and a childhood friend, but you can't make a snappy name out of that,) and apparently Silke had been jealous of their top billing at the most expensive inn in town. So she had hatched a plan to dupe some traveling mercenaries into killing her competition for her, luring the naive singers out with an offer to buy some of their costume jewelry in a dark alley. Worst of all it looked like she never had any intention to pay for the job. At least there was nowhere near three hundred gold on the actress's corpse.

Through all of this Garrick sullenly claimed innocence, and his shock at Silke's betrayal certainly seemed genuine. "Mistress Silke was always telling me that I needed to toughen up if I wanted to get ahead in entertainment," he muttered into his drink. "'Your pretty face and voice have gotten you this far, little Garrick,' she'd say, 'but you need to learn that this is a cutthroat business.' I didn't think she meant it so literally."

The grateful Berdusk Brothers had invited them to a round of drinks and a free performance at Feldepost's, and the three mercenaries and one forlorn bard were now seated at a broad, round table in the common room. Feldepost's was indeed a lavish establishment, with polished marble columns supporting the vaulted hardwood ceiling and richly colored Calishite rugs covering most of the floor. Despite not being brothers the Berdusk trio pulled off some remarkable three-part harmonies. Currently their voices were locked in a somber, haunting ballad.

Imoen gave the young man a pat on the arm. "Aww," she said, "don't worry about it. It all worked out in the end. Well…not for Silke, but you know what I mean."

"She got what she deserved I suppose," Garrick said. "Though now I'm out of an apprenticeship, no place to stay and not a copper to my name. I just should have seen it coming."

"Sometimes you just happen to be friends with a bloodthirsty killer," Imoen noted with a shrug and a pointed look at Ashura. "I can sympathize."

Ashura cringed and studied the tankard of ale in front of her for a time. "Imoen…" she eventually said. "Um…I'm sorry. I should have listened to you."

"Damn right," Imoen teased. "Don't get me wrong, I've liked the way you usually let yer swords think for you, especially since they've been doing their thinking on the hearts and guts and brains of some pretty bad people. But you had me worried in the alley. Wish you'd at least glance around and make sure that they're armed first."

"Aye," Branwen agreed. "Tis no honor in attacking a foe who cannot fight back."

"I get it, I get it," Ashura muttered. She wanted to make a point about how dangerous mages can be without needing to be armed, but now wasn't the time."I'll be more careful in the future."

"Good," Imoen said, seemingly satisfied. She reached over and tapped Garrick again. "As for you, Mr. Copperless, you can tag along with us for a while if you want. We're _trying_ to make some money as adventurers."

Garrick perked up a bit. "You'd have a use for me? I don't want to be a burden but…"

"Oh yeah," Imoen said with a grin. Turning to a Ashura she asked: "Can we keep him?"

Ashura gave a noncommittal shrug and a smile. She was dubious as to whether Garrick had any real skills beyond juggling and being pretty, but she supposed only time would tell. And they had to build the 'war-party' somehow.

Soon the Berdusk Brothers had launched into a jaunty, up-tempo song and Imoen was swaying from side to side and tapping her hands to the beat. It wasn't long before she stood and insistently pulled Garrick along with her. Unlike the Jovial Juggler, Feldepost's had no wide and commonly used dance floor, but there was enough open space on one of the broad, gold-on-crimson tapestries to twirl a bit without fear of knocking into tables. Garrick acted bashful and reluctant, but once one hand was entwined with Imoen's and the other was resting above her hip he moved gracefully enough.

As Ashura watched the pair dance something slipped between the nearby lamp and her table, casting a long shadow. As she turned to see who it was a slurred voice nearby muttered: "Ere now, get out! I don't like your type in here!"

Ashura's heart raced and her hand leapt to her sword, but when she faced and inspected the man she relaxed a bit. His weathered, middle-aged face was red and glistening with sweat, and his whole body swayed unsteadily. _Just a drunk._

An equally ruddy and sweaty man stood a pace behind the first. With a clumsy hand he tapped the man who had spoken on the shoulder. "Heh," he barked and said in a slurred voice: "you tell 'em Marl." Both men wore plain, well-made clothing.

"My type?" Ashura asked.

"Ya," Marl growled. "Mercenaries. Adventurers. Upjumped thugs trackin' mud on good Mr. Feldepost's rugs an' upsettin' the local economy wif piles ah' gold ya dragged out of some tomb." He violently tapped his chest with the palm of his hand. "I put thirty years into ma' farm before I could afford a regular spot here at Feldepost's, and here you are, just some pimply kid, waltzing in like ya own the place. Prolly spreadin' gold you picked off some dead man."

"A lot of dead men, actually," Ashura stated. Branwen had risen to her feet as well and was standing by Ashura's shoulder, a big wolfish grin on her face.

"Ah, so you admit it!" Marl shouted. "Bloody murderers and opportunists. Ya have no place here 'mong us who've rightfully earned our coin."

"But I'm not leaving either," Ashura stated flatly, placing her fists on her hips. "Are you going to do something about that?"

The drunk snarled. "Damn right I am, ya little brat. I think ya need a good solid lesson. I've a mind ta take you over me knee and give yer little ass the sort of reddening you'll never forget."

Ashura rolled her eyes. She'd been in a few brawls before, and for some reason whenever she fought with a guy they had to bring up her ass, along with elaborate descriptions of spanking, during the trash-talking session beforehand. It was just as boorish coming from this old pervert as it had been from the boys of Candlekeep. "You'll find no little girls here," Ashura growled back, "though I sure don't see any men standing before me."

"Aye," Branwen interjected. "You talk and talk but I doubt either of you have the testicles to come outside with us and back it up. You'll find no spankings out there, just your blood and teeth in the dirt when we're through with you." Ashura felt like she had read somewhere that barroom brawls were considered a sacred business to the followers of Tempus. Branwen certainly gave that impression at the moment.

The drunk behind Marl stepped forward and gave Branwen a shove. "Oh I've got the balls alright!" he growled.

Ashura clinched her fists and smiled. This was perfect! Some drunken idiots to take her frustrations out of in a good, clean fight. No guilt or ambiguity.

"I can ta…take…" the drunk tried to continue as a dazed, empty look came over his eyes.

"Ya…you…uh…" Marl stammered, losing his line of thinking and staring at nothing in particular.

A dry, familiar voice spoke over Ashura's shoulder. "There's no reason to waste your time on these ladies is there?" he asked, and the two drunks nodded. "I thought not. Now why don't you two go back to the bar and drink yourselves into a benign stupor?"

"Sounds like a plan," Marl responded sleepily, patting his friend on the shoulder and turning him around. The two staggered away.

When Ashura whirled around to face the newcomer there was a certain satisfied look on his gaunt, elven face. Xan was wearing the same outfit she had last seen him in: sharp purple robes, jewelry and all. The moonblade hung from his hip.

"Why did you do that?" she asked the elf accusingly.

A confused look came over Xan's face. "Why did I…what?"

"Cast whatever spell you did on those drunks."

The puzzlement on Xan's face deepened. "Uhm. To save you two from harassment and a potential beating? It seemed like the most prudent course." A pause. "Wait," he went on. "You _wanted_ that situation to escalate into violence?"

"Well…yeah."

Xan shook his head. "You're more hopeless than I remember."

Ashura snorted, then reached out and gently patted Xan on the shoulder. "Thanks anyway for 'rescuing' us from those drunks. I appreciate the thought." Xan nodded slightly at that and Ashura turned to her companion. "Branwen, this is…Xanisteirial (I got the name right? Good!) He's been investigating the iron crisis."

Xan nodded, shuddering a bit as Branwen gave his hand a tight squeeze and a hard shake. "Yes," he whimpered, "though you may call me Xan. It's what all the humans seem to be calling me."

"Okay Xan," Branwen said with a grin before finally letting his hand go.

"My investigation is actually what brings me to this tavern," Xan stated, gesturing towards the table. "May I?"

"Of course," Ashura responded. By now Imoen and Garrick had returned to the table, arm-in-arm, and they all made their greetings and introductions.

"You were looking for clues about some bandit king right?" Imoen asked as they took their seats.

"Yes," Xan replied, pitching his voice low and leaning forward. "And I've tracked his main messenger and go-between to this very inn. He arrived in town a few days ago, and seems to be enjoying the local luxuries. Unfortunately I've been unable to do anything beyond observing him from a distance."

"Aw. How come?" Imoen asked.

"Tranzig –the messenger- appears to be a mage, and a competent one at that."

At the mention of his name Branwen's face scrunched up. Noticing, Imoen gave her a quizzical look and asked: "Branwen? What is it?"

"Tranzig," the priestess replied, "was the name of the mage who imprisoned me in stone. How odd."

Imoen's eyes went wide. "Oh wow. Do you think it was the same person? You hear all sorts'a stories about wizards stretching their lives out."

Branwen shook her head slightly. "A powerful archmage would not be working as a courier. No doubt this is some descendant of the villain. Though by working with bandits and hiding behind dirty trick he is certainly carrying on the family tradition. 'Twould be a pleasure to introduce him to my hammer."

Xan cringed a bit at her bloodthirsty eagerness. "From what I've seen he's certainly no ancient archmage. Though neither am I. If I confront him or even follow too closely I could easily find myself on the losing end of a wizard's duel."

Branwen snorted. "Bah," she scoffed, "you sound like a coward."

"I don't particularly care what I sound like," Xan stated dryly, "if I can complete my mission without dying a horrible death. Inevitable as that seems to be."

"The life of a warrior is all about searching for a good place to die," Branwen insisted.

"Then it's a good thing I'm not a warrior," Xan bit back. "In any case, violently confronting Tranzig would also be an excellent way to get kicked out of this inn and most likely run out of town."

"We'll just have to come up with a stealthy plan then," Imoen concluded.

"Oh _we_ will huh?" Ashura asked.

"Yup," Imoen said with a smile, followed by a pointed look. "Because we're going to help Xan here. Free of charge I might add. It's the least we can do for Khalid and Jaheira."

Ashura nodded. "Fair enough."

"I was not going to ask for your assistance," Xan put in, "but I must admit I would be grateful. Tranzig has already taken his dinner and retired to his room by the way. I've no idea when he goes to bed but it may be prudent to wait."

"I know a little about sneaking around and picking locks," Garrick offered. "I'd be happy to help."

"We'll go together then," Imoen said, giving Garrick a conspiratory smile. "It'll be our first adventure together. I think I have some ideas."

Ashura took a quiet sip of her ale as she listened. Between backstabbing bards, drunks and Greycloak investigators on urgent missions the gods certainly seemed to be conspiring against her having a quiet, relaxing evening. She had to agree with Imoen though. They owed it to Khalid and Jaheira to at least help a little more with their mission, especially when the problems of the Sword Coast fell right into their laps.

* * *

It was two hours past midnight when Imoen and Garrick silently slipped out of the Xan's room at the Feldepost inn, wary of the door's creaking hinges. Once the pesky thing was closed they walked in absolute silence, Imoen in the lead and grateful for her nightvision ring, creeping along the carpets that decorated the second story hallway. It was a short trip to Tranzig's door, which according to Xan was located on the opposite corner of the hall from his own room.

Kneeling and careful not to bump the door or anything else with the bow that hung from her shoulder, Imoen probed the lock with her thinnest metal tool and the lightest of touches. The mechanism seemed little different from the locks in Winthrop's inn, and within moments Imoen had the correct tiny latch depressed, using another tool to _slowly_ turn the lock. There was the faintest of clicks (a sound that sadly couldn't be helped,) and then she gently pushed the door forward, an inch at a time. The hinges never made a peep.

The bedroom beyond was as wide and extravagant as they'd come to expect in Feldepost's. Moonlight through the window provided a little illumination, dappled across a wide Calishite carpet in the center of the room. The edge of a polished ceramic bathtub peaked out from behind a standing privacy curtain, and in the far corner of the room stood an elegant desk carved of teak.

They left the door slightly ajar and crept across the carpet to another corner of the room, where a broad, covered bed stood. In the darkness Imoen could see a faint red glow coming from the sheets. _Good_. He really was sleeping there. Garrick took one side of the bed and she took the other, the bard wielding a thick strip of cloth while the redhead fingered a black wooden club. When they yanked aside the covers Garrick would use the cloth as a gag and Imoen would subdue the mage with the club. Not a pleasant business, but when was it ever?

Once their prisoner was subdued the plan was to drag him back to Xan's room as quietly as they could, then smuggle him out of the inn and to an abandoned house where he could be questioned. That's if everything went as planned. But there was something wrong. Imoen could sense it as they huddled over the sheets. She just couldn't put her finger on it.

It wasn't until they pulled back the covers to reveal nothing but a pile of pillows that the realization hit her: the glow she had seen with her infravision hadn't been strong enough to be a person's body heat. The mage had left the bed before they entered the room and now he was…

Before Imoen could turn from the bed a voice hissed from behind the privacy screen: "You do realize I had an alarm spell placed on that lock right?" it asked. "Any mage worth his salt would do the same."

* * *

"It's been too long," Ashura noted, glancing for a third time out into the empty hall. There had been nothing but silence from the far end where Tranzig's door still hung open ever so slightly.

Xan sighed. "I fear you may be right," he admitted.

Ashura's swords came out of their well oiled sheathes silently, making her wish that wasn't where her skill at stealth ended. "Well then," she noted, "it's time to do this the loud way."

"Good," Branwen growled impatiently, adjusting her shield and hefting her hammer. When Xan offered no argument they pushed the door fully open and quickly marched down the hall. At the door to Tranzig's room Ashura halted very briefly to take a deep breath, then slammed her foot into the door and flung it open. She stopped in her tracks when she saw Imoen: unharmed and standing in the center of the carpet with her bow in one hand and an arrow in the other.

"Ims?" Ashura asked. "What's going on?"

Imoen didn't answer. Instead she simply looked up from the floor with an empty expression in her eyes. There was a familiar tingling sensation in Ashura's upper body, but by the time she realized that it was a warning from her magic boots and tried to twist aside it was too late. By then Imoen had knocked and drawn the arrow, and she didn't hesitate to fire it point-blank into Ashura's chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't you hate Silke and her surprise zig-zagging lightning attack? It's wiped out a lot of first level parties for me.


	16. Scar Tissue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we get one of those scenes where the protagonist looks in a mirror and we get a detailed description of how they look. Justified, I hope. When you get a large number of scars in a short amount of time, examining them seems like a natural thing to do

_ "Ever the poet, Jandau would compliment me on each scar I collected in the Abyss. 'Every scar marks a crossroads you have boldly stepped over, my little flame,' he would say. I never believed that. In the Abyss there was only ever one direction to travel. Always fighting. Always up."  _ –Nina Whitesun, _Memoire of a Warbitch_

* * *

A gasp of shock and pain hissed through Ashura's lips as she gripped at the arrow that had buried itself in her right breast, punching through chainmail and padding like it was nothing. Strength fled her legs, and she barely noticed the impact when she sunk to her knees, eyes on her best friend as the girl emotionlessly knocked another arrow. Was this it? Killed by a charmed _Imoen_ of all things? Garrick stood nearby, with the same glazed look in his eyes. His crossbow released and the bolt flew over Ashura's head, followed by a wooden thunk.

Her swords were so heavy in her hands, and she found she could not hold on. They tumbled from her fingers and her arms followed, slumping outward.

Somewhere far away Branwen was letting out a long, throaty battle cry. Somewhere farther away Xan was chanting something.

The bowstring stretched and Ashura's hands just rested there on the floor. Blood was pouring down her chest and her body felt so very, very heavy. _Poor Imoen_ , she thought. _She's never going to forgive herself for this_. She wanted to get up and fight, but there was just no strength to tap into. Accepting that, she wanted to at least tell her friend that she forgave her. She wanted to say _'It's okay Ims, I'll always love you, no matter what.'_ All that came out of her mouth was a choked gasp.

A blur of armor and golden hair passed by and slammed into Imoen, knocking the bow from her hands and sending the girl tumbling to the floor. At the same time Branwen's glowing hammer swung around and struck Garrick in the stomach, doubling him over. There was a glow about the entire priestess's body, and her strength and speed seemed unnatural.

Ignoring the fallen puppets Branwen pushed on in search of the puppeteer. Another swipe from her hammer knocked the nearby privacy screen aside and finally revealed Tranzig. The mage wore only a black silk robe belted at the waste and his long, dark hair was disheveled. Apparently Imoen and Garrick really had caught him in his sleep, but somehow he had gotten a step ahead of them.

Branwen's hammer swung around again, but it struck some sort of barrier and bounced harmlessly off in a burst of light. Tranzig simply grinned and stretched a finger out, aiming at her.

Before the mage could launch into his next spell Xan's chant came to a crescendo and the room was filled with a blinding white light. When it finally faded to spots before everyone's eyes Imoen and Garrick were blinking heavily and looking about in confusion, and Branwen was swinging her hammer again. This time there was no barrier and the blow struck Tranzig squarely in the stomach with a cracking sound that must have been ribs. He doubled over and fell to his knees, clutching his abdomen and gasping desperately for air.

With a triumphant roar Branwen raised her hammer again, high over the mage's head. Before she could bring it down the shimmering edge of Xan's moonblade pressed against the underside of the weapon. "We need him alive," Xan stated evenly. "Please tend to our dying ally over there," he went on, pointing at Ashura. "I'll tend to Tranzig."

Branwen growled but she did as she was told and stomped over to her wounded companion. Taking a deep breath the priestess began a healing prayer, her gloved right hand glowing blue while she gripped the arrow that protruded from Ashura's chest. Without warning the priestess yanked the shaft away and unleashed a torrent of blood and pain. Before she lost consciousness the scream that leapt from Ashura's throat must have awakened the entire inn.

* * *

"I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry." It was Imoen's voice that she awakened to. The girl was hovering close, and sounded on the verge of tears. Winching, Ashura realized that Imoen had been saying those words for some time now. She had foggy memories of stumbling forward on the street, her body propped up between Branwen and Imoen, weak but no longer bleeding. All the while Imoen had been whispering 'I'm sorry.'

Reaching a fumbling hand out Ashura weakly patted her friend. "It's alright," she managed in a cracked voice. There was faint light somewhere in the room, and Imoen was a fuzzy blur above. Ashura's head pounded and she felt dizzy and weak as a feather, but at least the pain in her chest was just a dull ache now. "You know Ims," Ashura added, "you managed to sucker-punch me twice in one night. I'm impressed."

"I'm not apologizing for the first time," Imoen whispered, mock-sternness in her voice. Their hands found each other and exchanged a squeeze. "And if I ever get charmed again don't hesitate to attack. I'll understand!"

"Hesitate if you're asked to attack unarmed men, who might throw spells at you. Don't hesitate if your best friend is attacking you with a glazed look in her eyes. It's all so confusing," Ashura complained.

Imoen scoffed. "Yeah, I guess magic can make life more complicated sometimes," she admitted.

Attempting to sit up made Ashura wince and slide right back down. Not that her bed was particularly comfortable; she lay atop an old straw mattress that smelled sour and mildewed. There were no sheets, just someone's bedroll that had been tossed over her, and her boots and the top portion of her armor and clothing had been removed. Bandages were wrapped and tied to her chest, a faint ochre leaking through where the arrow had struck. As she shifted on the bed a bit she realized that her back and bottom were terribly stiff. A skirt of leather with metal strips in it is not the most comfortable thing to sleep in.

"So we made it to the abandoned house?" she asked as she glanced around. The whole room smelled musty and rotten, and it was lit by a single hooded lantern that Ashura recognized from Imoen's pack.

"Yes," Xan's solemn voice stated from somewhere in the gloom.

"Some Flaming Fist guards tried to stop us," Imoen added, "but Xan told them he was 'arresting this man on official Greycloak business' and they got this dazed look in their eyes and said it was okay."

Xan shook his head. "It was a very near thing," he said. "If there had been more than two guards or if they had been less susceptible to my spells we could have been declared outlaws. That's a most uncomfortable position for outlaw hunters."

"So was it worth it?" Ashura asked as she forced herself up and flung her bare feet over the edge of the bed.

"Perhaps," Xan said with a noncommittal shrug. "I have obtained the information I came for, disappointing as it is."

Garrick sat in a threadbare chair in the corner of the room, and at the sight of Ashura's bandage-clad upper half he shifted uncomfortably and averted his eyes.

Around the corner in the house's second room Tranzig sat slumped forward on a stool, his wrists tied behind his back and his ankles bound to the stool's legs. Sweat glued his hair to his forehead and face, and his features were scrunched up in pain from the broken ribs, but he looked unharmed otherwise.

The room seemed to have once served as a kitchen and lauder, but the shelves were bare and cobwebs hung thick. At the center of the room a trapdoor sat, held shut by a massive and heavy-looking padlock. Branwen leaned against a nearby wall, her face stony.

"Now," Xan said dryly as he approached Tranzig, "just to make sure we have everything clear, and for the benefit of our new guest, we might as well go over this one more time."

"We might as well," Tranzig said in a defeated tone.

"He was somewhat resistant at first," Xan told Ashura, "but a few suggestion spells got him talking, and once he knew he could not keep secrets from us the rest came. The man is a simple mercenary, not big on loyalty."

"True enough," Tranzig grunted. "Was hoping some silence could buy my life, but I guess it's forfeit now." Xan did not respond and the words hung in the air for a time. Tranzig smirked a bit. "Guess I deserve it. I've flung my share of mind-control spells around." His defiant smirk turned into a leer and he looked up at Imoen. "Just regret I never had time to tell the redhead to take her clothes off. Always the best part of an enchantment spell."

"I'm not interested in your perversions," Xan stated. "Only your relationship with Tazok."

The bound mage nodded. "He hired us Black Talons about half a year back. Already had a bit of a bandit army then but you can never have too much eh?"

"And what other forces constitute this army?"

"The Chill hobgoblin band and some little tribe of rowdy gnolls. Don't know their name. The gnolls are unruly little bastards but the Chill are a good lot. Tough as nails and really disciplined. They don't act like your typical goblin tribe either. Got women hobs holding spears and marching in the phalanx, instead of raising babes naked in some cave. They're a fun lot to be around too. I doubt you've ever been with a hobgoblin, but boy can they go wild-"

Xan groaned. "I _said_ I wasn't interested in your perversions. I only care about your army and its makeup."

A mock look of hurt came over Tranzig's face. "Hey, it's not a perversion," he said. "It's being egalitarian. You too snooty to bed a hobgoblin? Are scrawny, stuck-up little elf women the only thing good enough for you?"

Ashura burst out laughing, then instantly regretted it and clutched at the wound on her chest. When she had regained her composure she turned to Xan and asked: "You realize he's just buying time right?"

"I realize," Xan said with a sigh.

"I could maybe take a knife to him and…" Ashura offered.

Xan shook his head. "That's not necessary. I like to keep these things tidy. In fact one of the reasons I trained in the magic of the mind was to ferret out clear answers for my order. I was just hoping not to waste another spell." Before Tranzig could deliver a quip Xan hummed a few arcane words and gestured towards the prisoner with his fingers. Tranzig shook his head briefly but soon his eyes grew emotionless.

"Once again," Xan said, "tell me the composition of Tazok's army."

The prisoner responded in an dry, mechanical fashion. "Us Black Talon Mercenaries, the Chill Hobgoblins, a band of gnolls and a lot of petty thugs. I think the bulk of his army is lowlifes from Baldur's Gate along with pirates and deserters from the Flaming Fist. Sometimes they also press caravan guards into service when they take a prize. I don't know numbers, beyond the fact that there's three hundred Black Talons paid to serve Tazok and way more of the chill and the rabble."

"So where do we find Tazok and this army?"

"Somewhere in the Wood of Sharp Teeth. I can't tell you more specifically. The last time I saw the ogre was months ago, and the camp has moved around since then. Most of the bandits are up there in the Sharp Teeth. They avoid the Cloakwood generally, since it's full of monsters, and the road runs beside the Sharp Teeth at the best ambush spots anyway. Most of the bandits are there, but the forest is a big place."

Xan glanced over at Branwen and she nodded. "Once again," Branwen noted, "he's telling the truth. He was even telling the truth about bedding hobgoblins," she added with a smirk.

"So where can we go to find Tazok?" Xan asked, his tone indicating that he already knew the answer.

"For the past month," Tranzig replied, still emotionless, "I've been taking messages to Mulahey and then to two meeting places at the edge of the Sharp Teeth. I meet with Black Talons in Larswood, which is this little forest on the eastern edge of the bigger woods, near the Friendly Arm. We meet by a ruined tower southeast of some big standing stones. The other spot is in Peldvale, right between the four little lakes."

"And you can tell us nothing else about the location of the bandits?" Xan asked.

Tranzig shook his head. "They're constantly moving. You would be too if the Flaming Fist was always on you." The glazed look was lifting from his eyes. "I've just been delivering messages and enjoying my pay in fine inns. It was a pretty sweet job until you people came along. And that's the truth. That rough looking wench over there can attest to that." He nodded towards Branwen.

"He tells the truth," she admitted.

"So unless you have some other questions," Tranzig said, "that's about all I have to tell you. Don't suppose you're going to let me go now?"

"You know I never promised that," Xan said, sadness in his voice. He took a step closer.

"Look," Tranzig said, "I promise I won't-" His words were cut off when Xan's moonblade flashed forward with surprising speed and plunged directly into his chest, piercing his heart. There was a look of shock and agony on the mage's face as the life drained away from it, then he shuddered a moment and went still. It was quick and clean, though the smell of voided bowls and urine detracted from the 'clean' part a bit.

Imoen gasped and put her hand to her mouth. "Why did you do that?" she finally managed to ask while Xan cleaned his sword.

"He would have done the same to you," Xan stated, "only he would have done worse first. You heard what he said about enchantment spells."

"That doesn't make it right."

"Not right," Xan agreed, "but the correct course of action. No matter what promises he made us the man could have easily tipped off his fellow Black Talons. My mission is to insure that iron begins flowing to Everska once again, and I will do what it takes to accomplish that." He turned to Ashura and gestured towards the dead body slumped on the stool. "Can you and Branwen manage to carry that?" Garrick was leaning back in a corner, a sickly look on his face.

Both women nodded and silent grabbed the corpse by the arms. Xan gestured, making it clear that their destination was the trapdoor. The gestures became more than pointing, and with an arcane word the padlock was surrounded by a faint white glow. The device silently came apart and rose a few feet into the air as the elf concentrated on it.

"This part will be a bit unpleasant," Xan said. Of course his usual tone made everything sound unpleasant. "You see, this house is abandoned because the cellar was overrun with rather…large spiders. You will want to toss the body down there and shut the door as quickly as possible."

"Uh…" Ashura muttered, uncomfortably aware of her bare feet near the cellar door. "Great."

With a kick Branwen flung the trapdoor open, and somewhere in the darkness below Ashura heard a sharp, crinkly sound. Then the darkness started moving.

They tossed the body in a hurry and instantly bent down to throw the door shut. As Xan used his magic to reattach the lock with a satisfying click Ashura shuddered and took several long steps back. For once she was glad to not be wearing her darkvision helmet. She'd be happy if she never had to see the sort of creature that was chittering and crawling down there in the dark.

She went into the front room to dress completely, strapping her swordbelt on, and then the five quietly left the abandoned house. Outside beyond the shuttered windows it was daytime, but thankfully there were no townsfolk nearby to give them odd looks as they closed the door and made their way. Ashura gave the little abandoned shack one last backward look and shook her head. _Sleeping above a den of giant spiders!_ And the house wasn't even hidden and out of the way. It was on the same block as Thunderhammer's smithy and a quick walk down the street from the Jovial Juggler. She'd never considered herself squeamish, but giant spiders… _yuck._

"So," Imoen asked Branwen in a whisper. "Was there any sort of family resemblance?"

The priestess shrugged. "The hair perhaps. 'Twas hardly any sort of satisfying vengeance, but I'm happy to see the world rid of one more mage who hides behind cowardly tricks."

They walked for a time, unsure of where to go, until Imoen led them to the Jovial Juggler, saying something about how she hoped they were still serving morningfeast. As it turned out it was actually a bit past noon, but there was plenty of food cooking. Ashura ended up breaking the day's fast on a greasy sausage, sour bread and a lovely dish of spinach and carrots smothered in honey-butter, all washed down with a strong cup of tea. Despite thoughts of giant spiders and watching a man die a few minutes earlier she had quite the appetite. Must have been the blood loss.

"So," Ashura asked between bites, "I suppose you'll be heading up to the Wood of Sharp Teeth?"

Xan frowned at the plate before him. He had been moving bits of food around with his fork but had yet to taste anything. "That is what my mission demands next, I suppose. If my partner still lived it would be easier. He was a skilled tracker in the forest, and aided by my spells he could scout the bandits out easily. A shame we weren't so cautious in the mines. But going alone into a forest bristling with bandits…"

"You continue talking the cowards talk," Branwen noted, her mouth full of food.

"Yes," Xan replied. "I suppose I have little choice but to walk right into absolutely certain death and end my mission right there."

Branwen didn't acknowledge the sarcasm. Instead she slapped the elf on the back, rocking him forward and bellowed: "Exactly! Mayhap we should come along with you. A hoard of bandits just waiting to be crushed. Tis the stuff of songs!"

"He's fishing for our help anyway," Ashura noted.

"I would never presume-" Xan protested.

"It's fine," Ashura cut him off. "I appreciate that you're using guilt as a weapon instead of those charm spells of yours. As long as you never point those at us we don't have a problem." After a bite of sausage she added: "I don't care much for the idea of walking into certain death though."

"I never knew you to be a coward," Branwen scoffed.

"Bravery and suicide are separate things," Ashura retorted, "which is what Xan is trying to explain to you. Not to mention: why should I-"

"Because this is our fight, Shura," Imoen interrupted.

Ashura opened her mouth to object but Imoen quieted her with a gesture and reached forward. "It's our fight," she repeated, "and I'll show you why." Leaning closer Imoen carefully pinched a piece of Ashura's chainmail near where the arrow had punched through the links. The steel around the puncture was stained a rusty black and many of the links were bent and broken. Imoen managed to carefully pull a few loose bits of chain away from the tunic and held them up. Placing a link between her fingertips she squeezed and the brittle metal snapped.

"Bloody Hells," Ashura complained. "And I just had that armor mended."

"Mended with tainted steel, it looks like," Imoen pointed out.

"Point taken," Ashura stated sullenly. "Seems there's no escaping this damned iron shortage. And it's very nearly killed me. Again." She munched on a bite of bread before continuing. "I still don't see what we can do about it though."

"Aye," Branwen agreed. "You're most likely right. We're a fine enough warband, but if there's an army in the wood it would best be met with an army." She looked at Xan. "Your grey-cloaked elves wouldn't deign to send reinforcements, would they?"

Xan shook his head. "I doubt that very much."

As they spoke Ashura stared off into the distance. After a time she clicked her tongue and muttered: "Hm."

"What is it?" Imoen asked.

Standing up, Ashura walked around the table and over to the wall she had been facing throughout the meal. It was the section of the common room that served as an informal spot for hanging messages. Nailed to the wood was a bounty notice for some priest named Bassilus, a parchment advertising fresh meat pies baked daily by someone named Nessy, a much larger and lavish advertisement touting the thrills of some brothel and casino in Baldur's Gate called the Blushing Mermaid, and a news pamphlet telling of the many wonders found across the Trackless Sea in the 'New World.' Ashura ran her fingers across a much plainer white poster near the center of the wall.

"You've got an idea?" Imoen asked, reading over Ashura's shoulder.

"Possibly," Ashura replied. "A way we can travel to the Wood of Sharp Teeth with at least a small army at our backs, fight some bandits. Hmm…and maybe even make a little money."

The poster read: _"Seeking Rough and Tumble Men and Women for a Rough and Tumble Job! Kagain and Associates Mercenary Company is looking for swordsmen, archers, divine channelers and spell-slingers to protect iron caravans bound for Baldur's Gate. No slouching pugs need apply!"_

* * *

Five days later and many leagues to the south Ashura awakened in the Nashkel inn. As she rolled onto her back, blinked away the dawn light and stretched, she wished she could stay beneath the sheets a bit longer. This was likely the last chance they'd have to sleep on a soft bed for a good while. Unfortunately Captain Kagain seemed to keep a tight schedule and they had precious little time after dawn to prepare for the journey north.

So Ashura pushed the blanket aside, rolled out of bed and forced herself to stand up. This wasn't the room they had shared with Khalid and Jaheira a few tendays ago (Xan and Garrick had actually been given that one,) but it looked similar enough and was just about as cramped, with Ashura, Branwen and Imoen sharing a bed and few amenities to speak of.

The room did at least boast a large upright mirror, standing next to a crude wooden chest were the washing basin and a bucket of water rested. After relieving herself over the chamber pot and splashing some water from the basin over her face and body Ashura went to the mirror. One last chance to get presentable before marching through the woods and sleeping on the ground for days.

Facing the mirror and turning from side to side she examined herself. Her jet black hair was chaotic and tangled from sleep but a few firm strokes with a comb of carved bone began to tame it. Straight and not terribly thick, her hair had always been manageable, at least compared to some of her roommates in Candlekeep who seemed to spend hours combing the tangles out. Over the course of the journey her hair had grown a bit, coming down almost to the center of her back. Perhaps soon it would be time to cut it down to a more manageable shoulder-length. For now she bunched it up, twisted it behind her head and tied it back with a thin leather band.

There was hardly a hint of fat on her body beyond her modest breasts, thanks partly to her training and mostly to the hard month she had spent on the road. 'Too skinny' old Winthrop would probably say, and there would be some truth to that. She had enjoyed a feast whenever she had the chance but the soft days spent at inns were vastly outnumbered by day when she had supped on light rations of salted meat and dried nuts and grains. There was at least a little meat on her bones, especially in the legs where she always seemed to feel a dull ache from the endless hikes.

Her short, upturned nose was bent a bit from being broken and reset several times. It wasn't badly mangled, but it was definitely something a person would notice looking at her face straight on. Beyond that her face was free of scars thus far, though the same couldn't be said for the rest of her. Healing magic had worked wonders on the wounds she had taken since leaving home, but many of the major injuries had left their marks.

There was a semicircle of small, raised scars on her shoulder, a pattern made by the deep bite of a gnoll, and below that on her right arm near the elbow there was a similar, smaller pattern made by a wolf's bite. Her most recent wound from Imoen's arrow had left a pale, circular mark on the outer portion of her right breast, and on the other side of her chest at the ribs there were two faint streaks, the result of kobold swords or daggers. Below that along her belly she bore two more scars: one long and prominent slash mark just above her navel from the gnoll chieftain's halberd and another beneath that which was barely visible; a nick made by the dwarf bounty hunter's axe.

Turning around and examining her back revealed more half-healed wounds: a long gouge between her shoulder blades where another gnoll's halberd had struck, a smaller but uglier scar where a throwing dagger had bitten deep, and a raised, circular puncture mark left by a kobold's arrow. All that had been collected in a bit over a month of adventuring, and there were likely more scars to come. _Ah well,_ better to be marred and alive than a beautiful corpse.

By now Branwen was up and about and Imoen was complaining from the bed. After dressing and dragging her friend through the morning routine Ashura strapped her armor and swordbelt on. At the Nashkel smithy the day before she had once again purchased a suit of chainmail, which the smith insisted was forged from fresh ore out of the mine. She had misgivings, especially about paying the price he demanded for 'untainted' armor, but she would need everything she could to avoid bandit arrows. She had also added a few more protective accessories: steel shoulder guards that went over the chainmail and some soft black wool tights to wear under her skirt. The hosiery had been Imoen's idea. Protection from brambles, and from the ogling eyes of all the strange men she was about to share a camp with.

Fully equipped, Ashura went about gathering her possessions and stuffing them into her pack. She was careful when she slid the book she had been reading the night before into the leather satchel. It was one of the more novel bits of loot they had found at the gnoll fortress: a sturdy manual entitled the _"Tome of Leadership and Influence."_ Between the leather-bound covers were thorough instructions on how to command, influence (and manipulate,) people through words and body language. It had never been clear who the 'leader' of their little warband was these days, but the others tended to defer to her, so she figured she could use some tips. Of course for the next tenday or two she would be taking orders from Captain Kagain.

After joining up with Xan and Garrick and wolfing down a quick morningfeast of oat porridge and tea the five companions stepped out into the balmy morning air and headed south along the river. The caravan was setting up on the edge of town. Most of the teamsters and mercenaries had camped out by the carts the night before, and were in the process of waking and striking the tents.

Oxen and a few horses lazily grazed in a nearby field, and the drovers were beginning to gather and herd them towards the wide cargo wagons, two by two. At the nearby river several of the oxen drank, and three of the male teamsters bathed a good distance from the beasts. Ashura slowed her pace a bit to give them a look: they were all relatively young looking; just a bit windburnt compared to your usual salty and weather-worn laborer. They were all a bit on the skinny side too, but not too badly proportioned. Especially the blonde one. _He's_ very _well proportioned._

They caught her watching and smiled up from the water, two of the workers making some lewd gestures. Ashura made a gesture right back, pantomiming gripping something (or two somethings) in one hand and slicing with the other. This just brought on guffaws and more gestures. _Not very shy fellows_ , but then again all the shy teamsters probably wouldn't stand naked and knee deep in water in full view of the camp. _This'll be an interesting trip._

All told there were ten carts, most of uniform size and covered with simple grey canvas, plus a large horse-drawn carriage. That was the home of the caravan's owner, a flamboyant young man named Eddard Silvershield. They had briefly met the lad a day earlier when he walked around inspecting the goods and generally trying to look important. The nobleman was always trailed by two men who appeared to be a bodyguard and a manservant, as well as a very underdressed blonde woman that Ashura guessed was some sort of high-cost whore.

Eddard was nowhere to be seen this morning but the captain was present, a grumpy look on his face (did dwarves have any other expression?) as he paced up and down the row of carts and tents. He appeared to be a bit old but very sturdy, his long black beard salted and streaked with grey. Kagain wore a suit of fine scalemail armor, and under his thickly muscled arm he carried a dwarven helmet with elaborate steel wings on either side.

It wasn't long after Ashura's company had arrived that the captain put his fingers to his mouth, whistled loudly and shouted: "Alright you rabble that calls yerselves mercenaries! Form up!" Kagain had a low, scratchy voice that sounded like it had seen too much pipe smoke and spirits, but he had a skill for making it carry.

They formed a line along the road. At least eventually. Some of the armored men and women instantly snapped to attention while others scurried around like headless chickens. It showed who was a green hireling and who had been in some sort of military service right away. Imoen and Garrick were among the scrambling chickens, but Ashura had drilled enough times with the guards in Candlekeep to know how to stand at attention.

"Alright," the captain barked out. "If you're most competent with a bow or other long-range weapons step forward and form a line here. If you're more skilled with melee weapons stay where you are. Spell-slingers step to this spot. I know who you priests are," he pointed at Branwen and a tall armored man, "and you can stay with the melee fighters. And if you can't fight with a bow, a sword, or spells," he gestured with his thumb, "get the fuck out."

Only Xan and a dark-haired woman in scruffy traveler's clothes volunteered as 'spell-slingers' but the rest broke down somewhat evenly. No doubt Kagain had planned it that way when he recruited the guards. Next the captain went down the line and paired each archer with a warrior. Ashura's group was not split up, but she did get partnered with Garrick. Finally Kagain assigned each partnered team to a wagon and went over the rules for the upcoming journey. Ashura was pleased to learn that her assigned cart would be driven by a pair of female teamsters (a chubby, freckled woman with bright red hair and a scrawny, dark skinned brunette who the caravaners called 'the sisters' as some sort of inside joke,) and not any of the bathing guys. She had a feeling those three would get insufferable fast.

Eventually the mercenaries were dismissed and went to their carts to prepare for the journey. At one point Imoen took Ashura aside and gave her friend a dramatic pout. "You got partnered with Garrick," she noted. "No fair!"

"I think the captain knows what he's doing," Ashura whispered back with a sly smile. "You may actually have some guarding to do, and you'll do it better without acting like a lovelorn puppy."

"Hey!" Imoen pulled a face.

"Your secret's safe with me," Ashura said. "And I promise I won't make a move on the boy." She didn't add what an easy promise that was to make. The jovial pretty-boy had already begun to grate on her nerves a bit on the journey from Beregost.

All in all there were twenty-seven mercenaries, including the captain, the two mages, and two elven scouts, though they felt stretched a bit thin guarding the wagons in pairs. It wasn't exactly an army but Ashura hoped it was better than the five of them just blindly marching into the Wood of Sharp Teeth.

Within the hour the oxen were lined up in their harnesses and the crack of whips and creak of wooden wheels filled the air. Despite the elevation the air already felt heavy and muggy, and it was threatening to be a gruelingly hot summer day on the first leg of the caravan's journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm. Coyly watching the guys go skinnydipping seems to be a running theme in this story.
> 
> Some of you may be thinking that Ashura's plan to join a caravan that's slow-moving and loaded with bandit-bait before going into a bandit infested forest might not be the best idea. You may be right. What can I say; wisdom was Ashura's dump-stat. On the other hand I kind of like the idea of going into a dangerous area with lots of heavily armed cover. It's kind of the opposite of the typical Bioware "You have to go in with a small group because it can uh…move quicker or something," plot.
> 
> Also some of you may find Xan's actions in this chapter a bit shocking. Sorry about that. Executing a prisoner seems like the sort of thing a coldblooded secret agent-type character would do, and Xan's essentially an Everskan (not so secret) agent.
> 
> And if anyone's wondering, Nina Whitesun is a character from J. Robert King's Planescape books. I loved those old D&D novels, and just felt like throwing a few (non spoilery) references to them here and there.
> 
> One addition note: To those wondering why Branwen isn't more eager to crush Tranzig's head I should point out that in my slightly altered version of events it wasn't Tranzig who turned Branwen to stone. My fault for changing the story (I missed an opportunity to write a big dramatic moment of vengeance!) Of course my version of Branwen is still very eager to crush the heads of mages (especially ones who use dirty tricks,) for obvious reasons.


	17. Caravan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Coran and Kivan make excellent partners

_ "Oh, it was just the usual stuff. Hours of crushing boredom punctuated by brief moments of pants-shitting terror. And lots of card games." _ -Olway Lezard, on the Battle of Thurgabanteth

* * *

The groan of wagon wheels, the braying of oxen and the snap of the whips became a constant and comforting song along the road. Of course all too often the snap of bowstrings, the clash of steel and the roar of battle cries would rise up to accompany them. On the very first afternoon of their journey they were attacked by a band of hobgoblins, and from there bandit ambushes became a regular occurrence.

Fortunately the elven scouts proved their worth. Always riding ahead of the column and slipping silently into the woods at regular intervals, the pair managed to sniff out every ambush beforehand and report back to the captain. Instead of a surprised target the raiders found themselves on the wrong side of a well-planned and lopsided battle over and over again.

During the first attack Garrick also showed that he wasn't entirely worthless: he was a skilled marksman with that light crossbow of his, and along with Xan and another archer with a talent for weaving magic into song he helped keep the animals calm when the hobgoblins were charging. Beyond that the lad also knew a smattering of useful spells, including one that briefly paralyzed enemies with laughter and a few minor healing songs.

Unlike some of the other teamsters who hid behind the wagons when the raiders charged, the 'sisters' showed that they were no slouches either. The plump one kept a small crossbow handy and was an adequate shot with it, and once when a hobgoblin got too close to the oxen the scrawny sister beat him to death with an oaken cudgel.

That first day they managed to repel two attacks and take no casualties before finding a spot on the mountain road the captain deemed suitable to hitch the animals and make camp. Between the scouts, the spell-slingers and careful and deliberate planning all seemed to be going well.

"For half a month," Eddard announced from the back of his carriage as the company parked their wagons and worked at the ox harnesses, "unpoisoned iron has been flowing from the Nashkel mine. A few have tried to move the raw stuff up the Tradeway and so far all have failed. But _we_ shall be the first! I know this. We have the manpower, we have the magic, and we have the organization. This iron," he gestured towards the low-sitting wagons, "shall be the first to cross the River Chionthar, enter Baldur's Gate, and bring us all fame and fortune!"

There were some cheers and claps, generally from the drovers and somewhat muted. Nevertheless Eddard beamed like he was a grand duke overlooking a city square. Ashura couldn't help but think that neither of their commanders would meet the approval of the Tome of Leadership and Influence. The lording tried to act the part, but he was obviously a coward, hiding in his fortified carriage behind paneled windows when they approached each ambush site. Kagain, on the other hand, was ready and eager to swing his axe and take command in battle, but there was something stone-cold about the way he ordered the guards around, and he never let an unnecessary word of encouragement slip from his mouth. It seemed like the captain saw the guards more like pieces upon a game board than people.

When the lordling's little speech was over and he had retreated into his carriage with an arm around his girl it was time to get familiar with the routines of a fortified caravan camp. Captain Kagain patiently led the greenhorns through much of it, and this time Ashura was as clumsy and unsure as Imoen and Garrick. She knew her way around military drills and forming up and fighting, but digging latrine ditches and setting up barriers for the pickets was all new.

Once everything was dug out and the tents were pitched the mercenaries who weren't assigned to the first watch queued up for eveningfeast. They passed a large cooking pot and were each ladled out a grey-brown stew. Ashura expected tasteless gruel but the stuff was actually pretty good: thick with potatoes, well spiced, and the tender beef tasted vaguely of red wine. _My compliments to the chef._

She sat down with Imoen and Garrick and surveyed their motley little crew while she munched. The elven scouts were nearby, one of them trying to make small talk with the other and being completely ignored. They were an odd pair, even more mismatched than Ashura's drovers, and unlike the sisters these two didn't seem to get along.

Both scouts were copper elves, but where one was short, weather-worn and jolly, the other was tall, handsome and downright hateful. The shorter elf had auburn hair, tied back over his head by some sort of band and cut in an odd, asymmetrical pattern. There was a permanent smirk on his face along with an odd green tattoo around his eyes that vaguely resembled a bandit's mask. For one of the fair folk he looked a bit wrinkled and aged, though Ashura was not certain if it was from time or lots of laughter and drink. The elf had a certain charm to him though; his complete lack of a care seemed to infect those around him, and Ashura had seen several of the women guards giggle while talking with him. Of course she'd also seen at least one of them slap the elf.

His partner was completely immune to that charm as well. The second wood elf seemed to have dark hair, though it was hard to tell since so far he kept the hood of his cloak over his head. Glimpses of a black widow's peak came here and there as he moved, over a forehead that was covered in green tattooed streaks. There were similar tattoos on the elf's chin; obviously some sort of tribal symbol. He glared down into his bowl of stew as his partner eventually gave up on trying to make the other talk or laugh, and instead slid over a few feet to chat with a nearby female guard.

Ashura had finished her bowl of stew and was rising to place it in with the other dirty dishes on the provision-wagon when the laughing elf and the guardswoman stood up as well. They turned and quietly made their way towards the woods, the elf's arm draped over the woman's shoulder all the while.

The next day they formed up and continued down the mountain road. It had been a long journey from Beregost to Nashkel the first two times, but with the caravan it was even slower. Between the heavy carts lumbering along the Tradeway and the long period it took them to set up or break camp they covered perhaps half the distance each day that a lone hiker could. Imoen guessed it would be a seven day journey just between the towns, provided all went well.

They were slowed down further by the day's ambush, served up this time by a small pack of ogrillons led by a full ogre. They were simply waiting at a bend in the road, easily spotted by the scouts, and between a preemptive spell of confusion from Xan and a blast of fire from the other mage the big creatures became easy targets.

That night by the firepit Ashura watched the red-haired elf slip off into the woods with the chubby drover-sister (who Ashura had recently learned was named Chera.) She turned to make a comment to Imoen but the girl didn't seem to notice. She was curled up rather close to Garrick, listening to him play the harp and whispering something to the boy under a cupped hand. _Great. What is this, a Greengrass festival?_

On the third night, after yet another ambush (this time another small band of hobgoblins,) it was Ashura and Imoen's turn to be approached by the smiling elf. He nimbly slid onto the grass between them as they ate their eveningfeast, turned to Imoen and asked: "What's this I see before me? Why, it appears to be a vision of Sune herself, fiery hair, apple cheeks and peerless beauty."

Nearby Garrick had been leaning against a stump and strumming his harp. He frowned and struck a sour note.

"I dunno," Imoen replied without looking up from her stew. "I'm pretty sure Sune has brighter hair. And bigger boobs. Doubt I can compare."

"Indeed," the elf said, unperturbed. "Lady Firehair can't compare to a beauty such as thine."

"Oh," Imoen jokingly cooed. "Now there's a clever twist." She turned towards Garrick. "Can you top that?" she teased.

Garrick thoughtfully plucked at the harp strings. He hummed for a moment then softly began to sing.

_ "Some may compare her, _

_ To Lady Sune herself _

_ The superficial observations _

_ Of a vain and flighty elf, _

_ But he missed the brilliant twinkle _

_ In her ever-shining eyes, _

_ As he plies her with the usual _

_ Shallow bedroom lies _

_ But the lady sees right through him _

_ For you see, in the end _

_ Lady Sune's not half as clever _

_ As Lady Imoen." _

The elf laughed and pressed his hand against his chest, pantomiming an injury. "Such a sharp tongue with that harp in your hand. I'm impressed lad," he said with a grin.

Imoen gave an approving clap and Garrick went back to thoughtfully strumming. "Hmm," he said. "It's a little rough still."

Rising to her feet Imoen danced over to the bard's side and plopped down next to him. "Well, maybe I can give you some ideas," she said. Turning briefly to the elf she added: "Seems I have a bard composing an ode to my beauty and brilliance. Don't think you can top that." From there she went to whispering in Garrick's ear.

The elf raised his hands in surrender. "I will not make the attempt." Turning his attention to Ashura he said: "Alas, it seems I've been used like a pawn."

"You'll find no apple-cheeks here," Ashura muttered at the elf, not looking up from her bowl of porridge.

"No," the elf agreed, "for yours is a sharp, angular sort of beauty. I'd be closer comparing thine to that of Hanali Celanil rather than Lady Firehair. Where your friend has a pleasant round softness your features are solid, as if chiseled from stone. Not to mention that you're…cheeks seem much more firm and compact than hers."

Ashura looked up from her meal and raised an eyebrow. "Straight from flighty talk of beauteous goddesses to complementing me on my butt? Really?"

"You struck me as one who prefers the direct approach," the elf said with a wry grin.

"I should strike you right now," Ashura replied, but instead she took another spoonful of eveningfeast. It was blander fare than the meal the previous night: wheat porridge sweetened slightly by sliced apples and some sort of syrup.

"Well, you haven't yet," the elf teased, "so I'll consider that a small victory."

Looking up at him she reached out, gently, and pointed at the elf's almond-shaped eyes. "What's the deal with that tattoo of yours?" she asked by way of changing the subject. "You're a wood elf. Is it some tribal thing?"

"Why it's a mask of course."

"Why a mask?"

The elf's mischievous smile deepened. "Because I'm a thief," he explained.

Ashura gave him an incredulous look. "Of women's hearts and maiden's virtue?" she asked sarcastically.

"Well, that of course," the elf purred, "but also of jewels. All throughout the wealthier corners of Baldur's Gate. As a youth I had a talent for climbing any tree in the forest of Tethyr, and when I came to the city I found that third-story windows are just as easy to climb to. It was a grand adventure while it lasted: lifting jewelry from those stuck-up nobles and enjoying wine, women and song with my well-deserved gains. I became so accustomed to wearing a mask that one night I had one tattooed on. That's before old Ravenscar found out about me and they ran me out of town."

"Ravenscar?" Ashura asked.

"The head of the local thieves' guild," the elf explained.

"Guess I have to watch my coinpurse around you," Ashura noted.

"Seldarine no!" the elf protested. "I only robbed from the rich. And gave to the poor. Well, poor barmaids and inkeeps that is." After a time he tapped the green ink around his eyes and added: "This is far from my only tattoo you know. I'd be happy to show you the others."

"Another time. Perhaps."

Later that night as they were laying out their bedrolls by the wagon, Chera sauntered over to Ashura and gave her a friendly tap on the arm. "Saw you talking with Coran," she said with a randy smile on her freckled face. "He's worth a go, if yer so inclined. For a spindly little elf he packs a lot in those britches of his."

Ashura made a face, not entirely sure how to respond.

"Just be warned: don't expect much from him afterwards. Elf's got a lot more conquer than cuddle in him. I'm sure you know the type." She spat.

"He told me he has a 'lot' more tattoos than the ones around his eyes," Ashura prodded, a bit curious.

The other woman brightened. "Aye. Flowers in all sorts of colors on vines about his navel, elven writing on his legs, some dancing maidens drawn on his back. And a _very_ intricate portrait Hanali Celanil just above his…" she pointed in the direction of her groin.

Despite herself Ashura's eyes widened. "Oh my."

"Yeah, I think that's the reaction he was going for with the tattoo. He had some line about how Hanali had 'blessed' him many times, so he felt he needed to pay tribute to her. I suspect it's just an excuse to show the area off." She chuckled, and then made her way to the wagon and her bedding on the top.

Not knowing what to think Ashura laid out on her own bedroll and started up at the stars for a time. _Coran. So that's his name._ She hadn't bothered asking. Much to her consternation when she finally did sleep her dreams were filled with brightly smiling elven eyes and strange tattoos.

* * *

With the ponderous clacking of hooves and the creaking of the wagons the caravan made its way down the last stretch of the mountain road. Ideally they would make it to Beregost early the next day and finish the first leg of the journey. Of course when did things ever go as planned?

It was early afternoon when word went down the line that an ambush was ahead. The biggest one yet, according to the scouts. A mixed group of hobgoblins and humans about forty strong, with teams of archers positioned on a ridge that would be in sight when the road wound around a tall forested hill. There was also a second team of brigands lurking in the woods, armed mostly with spears and swords and waiting on the low ground. Doubtless the plan was to pepper the caravan with arrows from the ridge while the warriors swept up and took them from the other side.

Guards and drovers alike chattered in low voices, and soon the decision was made: they would continue forward and walk warily into the ambush, ready to maneuver as soon as they cleared the bend in the road. _Lovely._ The column and time itself seemed to slow to a crawl as they approached and passed the hill that the scouts had warned them of. Garrick had begun humming and then singing a melodic, wordless song, but it did nothing to ease the tension. A few notes in Ashura recognized the cadence and melody; some sheparding song used to sooth beasts of burden.

A few carts ahead Imoen nervously muttered something and received a hearty slap on the back from Branwen for it. With a jolly laugh the Northlander announced: "'Tis a fine day to die."

Clear of the bend, with all their eyes on the ridge above, they watched and waited for the hidden bows to appear. It was a great relief when the captain finally raised his axe and shouted: "Halt! Take cover!" The order came just in time as well. The swish of arrows filled the air as every guard and teamster on the west side of the caravan dove and scrambled to get behind their wagons.

Crouching with her back against the side of the cart Ashura heard and felt the arrows strike the wood with a _thunk-thunk-thunk_. There was an ugly gasp from another cart as a guard who had not ducked low enough went down, one arrow through her neck and another in her shoulder.

In the nearby woods branches snapped and crunched and voices both human and not roared, announcing the approach of the charging bandits. Backs braced against their carts, the caravaners readied their weapons to meet them. The raiders leapt into full view a breath later, hopping over the lip of an overgrown ditch and bristling with spears and shields and swords. Almost all were hobgoblins, their orange skin covered in mismatched armored plates over leathers. Every shield up and down the row of warriors was identical though: hide stretched over wood and painted with the upturned fist on a white nimbus of the Chill band.

Ashura took all this in just before a crackling ball of flame streaked by from somewhere behind her and met one of the hobgoblin shields with a _woosh_ and an explosion. The blast and furnace-heat forced her to turn her head and cover her eyes. With the wave of searing air came the foul smell of burning hair and leather, and the enemy line faltered and fell apart. Charred bodies were knocked flat to the ground and living bandits hopped back or ran, patting flames out if they weren't completely on fire.

As some of the heartier raiders shouted "Regroup!" a second spell flew by into their midst. It took the form of a quick ripple through the air; a heatwave that came and went in a flicker and left fainting bodies in its wake, all but two of the raiders collapsing in a heap. From there the battle turned into a slaughter as Kagain gave the order and they rushed forward, finishing off unconscious and burning bandits.

Bending down a bit Ashura drove both swords through the nearest sleeping hobgoblin's back. Stomping and yanking brought her up and searching for the next kill. She was startled from the search when there was a sharp crackle nearby. As she cringed away she saw a streak of white lightning leap up and strike the nearby ridge. Tracking the source after blinking away streaks of light she realized the blast had come from Imoen. _The wand she lifted from Silke._ It had gone to good use during several of these little ambushes. The girl also carried Nimbul's old fire wand, but it was nearly out of magic.

Turning back to the charred ground and fallen bodies nearby she saw that Garrick was walking about, trying to do the same job as the rest of them. He took aim at an unconscious hobgoblin with his crossbow, looking away as the bolt struck the creature's head. The boy had a rapier at his belt but Ashura had never seen him use it, even now. His face was pale and maybe even a little green.

"Not the most romantic aspect of 'adventuring' eh?" Ashura asked her partner as she knelt down, yanked the hair of a sleeping man back and opened his throat.

In response Garrick muttered something, turned his head away from her and promptly vomited up his highsunfeast.

Ashura bit back a laugh. Not the lad's fault he wasn't used to the sounds and smells of death just yet, especially the smell of burning flesh with its reminder of what all meat really is. For a brief moment she wondered why she wasn't more bothered by the scene herself.

Once they had made sure all the attackers from the low ground were dead and no arrows rained from the ridge the caravan guards took stock. In addition to the slain guard one of the drovers (a somewhat elderly man who's name Ashura had not caught,) had also been taken down by an arrow. Their treatment was not terribly reverential. The captain ordered their bodies stripped of everything of value and dumped in the nearby ditch. Supposedly their belongings and hazard pay would be passed on to the next of kin they had written down when they signed their contracts, but the look Kagain gave some of the female guard's jewelry put some doubts in Ashura's mind.

It seemed if any of them took a stray arrow they would be unceremoniously dumped on the side of the road, minus armor, jewelry, pouches and boots. That definitely didn't seem like something the Tome of Leadership and Influence would advise to keep up moral.

Before the carts began rolling Branwen did manage to give the dead a brief blessing, bowing her head and intoning: "A battle-death is a holy ending."

In addition to the fallen they had lost a couple of oxen to the first large volley of arrows. On the upside, that night as they camped within sight of the outlying farms of Beregost they enjoyed a feast of fresh beef.

* * *

"Luck be a lady," Coran sang out happily as he palmed the pile of copper coins and swept it close.

"Well yeah," Imoen replied, sounding a bit confused. "Her name's Tymora."

Coran raised a finger and started to speak, then bit his words back, thinking for a moment. "Well…hrm." Eventually the jaunty smirk returned to his face. "I was more philosophizing about the nature of fortune and the nature of ladies…but yes, you're right." Wild copper hair sailed about as he shook his head. "But must you be so literal?"

"Yup. I must," Imoen said with a giggle. They were using a weathered stump as a card table, and up until that point Imoen had been cleaning the rest of the players out. There was still a fairly tall pile of petty coins in front of her, but Coran was beginning to catch up. Garrick and Ashura were no match for either of them. The young actor had shown off an impressive repertoire of card tricks earlier, but winning at Archers wasn't one.

The second elven scout sat nearby, quietly inspecting his arrows and fletching a few new ones. He had at least relaxed enough to remove his hooded cloak when he was around the rest of the guards, but despite Coran's constant pestering he still wouldn't join them in anything else.

Bracing her hands on the stump Ashura rose to her feet.

"Nina?" Coran asked. "You're leaving already?"

Ashura shrugged. "I'm out of coins."

"Aww. Stay. Stay." He patted her hand, tugging lightly, and she found herself plopping back onto the grass. "You know," Coran went on with a wicked grin, "there are other ways to wager. More _interesting_ ways."

Ashura and Imoen both rolled their eyes in unison. "For the last time Coran," Imoen said, "we're not playing Strip-Archers."

"I'll find some way to get you out of your clothes," he replied, unperturbed.

"Heh, doubt you'd really like that," Imoen shot back. "We've been in these clothes for most of a tenday now, getting covered in sweat and road dust, and blood in Nina's case. Ya might like what you see but not what you smell. Hells, I bet I could clear you all out just by taking off ma boots."

Coran wrinkled his nose and made it wiggle a little, though the playful look never left his eyes. "Well," he said dramatically, "if the clothes _must_ stay on perhaps Kivan would be so kind as to join us and add a fresh infusion of coppers." He gestured towards the other elven scout.

Kivan continued glowering at the arrow in his hands and didn't say a word.

"I wager you'd be fantastic at Elemental Empires," Coran went on, "what with that permanent scowl on your face. It's perfect for bluffing."

"Some of us don't consider this a pleasure outing," Kivan finally replied.

"I don't know. You seem to take a special pleasure in filling bandits with those arrows of yours." He turned slightly and as an aside to Ashura he said: "He worries me sometimes. We're supposed to just scout the bandits out but whenever there's an opportunity he silently picks a lookout off."

"I'm careful," Kivan retorted. "Better to silently take out a scout than be spotted. And we haven't been spotted yet."

"True, true," Coran accepted. "You just give me an impression it's something personal. There's a story there, and I'll whittle it out of you some day."

Looking up from his arrow Kivan shrugged. "Instead of whittling you could just ask."

Imoen chuckled. "Alright then," she interjected. "What's your story Kivan? You're here to kill bandits?"

The elf nodded. "I owe Tazok -the bandit king- a great debt of pain, and by the Night Hunter I will make him pay it."

There was a sour look on Coran's face now. "Perhaps I shouldn't have asked," he said. "I get the impression yours is the sort of story that would lower the temperature a bit, and it's such a nice, warm night."

"Well I wanna hear," Imoen whined.

"There's not much to tell." Kivan shrugged, eyes focused on the tip of the arrowhead between his fingers. "Near a year back the ogre and his band waylaid my betrothed and I. They took her from me…very slowly." That seemed to be all he intended to say on the matter. Ashura had a thousand questions bubbling up about Tazok: the weapon he favored, his strengths and possible weaknesses, but she held her tongue. It was something in itself to learn that the creature Xan had them chasing after was a dangerous sadist. _Lovely._

Later as Ashura made her way towards her wagon Coran stood and offered to 'walk her' there. She shrugged at that and let the elf stroll with her. "Trying to follow me into my bedroll?" she asked.

He playfully waved his hands. "Heavens no! I'm simply being gentlemanly." After a pause he added: "Of course if that's an offer…"

She shook her head and laughed. "There's always Chera's bedroll," she pointed out.

"I don't think you understand me," Coran said. "You see, I'm ever on a search for perfect beauty. No woman is perfect (though you come quite close,) but womankind experienced as a…whole gives me more and more of a clear look at that perfection."

Ashura chuckled. "Wow. That's the most transparent excuse to be a horny little lecher I've ever heard."

Coran was unphased. "Or," he said, "to put it another way there is great beauty in variety. Chera's inviting eyes and swinging hips had their own beauty, but so does your relentless feisty rejection. A beautiful challenge, one might say."

Ashura rolled her eyes. "How about you go challenge yourself?" she asked with a laugh and a light tap to the elf's shoulder.

He shook his head, ever smiling. "Someday I'll find a way through that armor of yours Nina."

"Doubt it. I've got no desire to raise a permanently smirking little half-elf."

"Ah. Now if that's your worry," Coran said as he opened a pouch at his belt, revealing a few pinches of some sort of green powder, "I can perhaps relieve your fears."

Raising an eyebrow Ashura peered into the bag. "That's um…dried cassil right? 'The Dalliance Shrub.' Expensive stuff. You really do see this as a pleasure trip don't you?"

"Life is a pleasure trip. An adventure."

"Maybe. For tonight how about you go adventure on your own."

"For tonight." He grinned at that little perceived victory and sauntered off.

_ Ugh. _

* * *

The stopover in Beregost was very brief. Just enough time to restock a bit and drop off a few crates of iron at Thunderhammer's and a store that Kagain owned and then they were off along the north road.

By now Ashura had grown accustomed to the life and routines of a caravan guard. There was a surprising amount of boredom and downtime that they filled with games of cards, dice, knife tossing, and gossip. She soon learned that soldiers were as bad as a knitting circle when it came to that. All that boredom was spiced with moments of surging adrenaline and sheer terror when they repelled the near-daily ambush.

Thankfully none of the attacks were as large as the one before Beregost, but they did lose two more guards over the next few days. The first casualty was an archer with a big bushy yellow beard who took an unlucky arrow to the forehead. The second death was a bit more gruesome. A scrawny youth who looked just out of his teens was overwhelmed on guard duty one night by a feral pack of gibberlings. It was Ashura's first glimpse of the creatures: small furry beasts that stood hunched and upright and attacked in horrifyingly large packs. By the time the rest of the guards had gotten the gibberlings off the lad his body was virtually torn apart, and Branwen's healing magic did little good.

The danger and constant proximity instilled a deep sense of companionship in the guards and teamsters both. Even Kivan joined in on some of their games, and he developed a friendly rivalry with Coran when it came to knife-throwing. Through all of this Eddard was virtually invisible, always retreating into his carriage when there was violence and appearing later to make decisions. He did join them occasionally during meals, along with his lady, and he showed off a fine, deep singing voice when Garrick played familiar songs.

The flipside of constant companionship was having absolutely no privacy or sense of independence. The captain made it very clear that for the duration of their mission they were all attached at the hip, especially the partnered pairs and wagon-mates. Every morning when Ashura relieved herself on the women's side of the latrine ditch there were others there beside her, and the skinny sister packed a surprisingly loud snore that woke her up a few nights. She had thought life in the dormitories of Candlekeep had inured her to such things, but at least back then there were privacy screens in the privy room and walls you could put between yourself and someone who had gotten annoying. She had never realized how much her time alone practicing swordplay on the battlements had meant until then.

Everyone's bad habits began to grate on her. The chubby sister's raunchy jokes, the skinny sister's snoring, Garrick's constant need to perform (the things she wanted to do with those damn juggling balls!); it all got under her skin, bit by bit. At least with Garrick she found an amicable solution: she offered to train him in swordplay. An excuse to raise some bruises on the boy really, but the training built a bond as well. It was hard to despise the lad when she was offering him a helping hand out of the dirt. He even impressed her once or twice and she collected a few bruises of her own.

She also wanted to hate Coran's constant flirting, but the elf was just self-effacing and silly enough to make her laugh it off. Of course despite his attitude she just couldn't see anything romantic about their journey. As Imoen had pointed out they all stank, and each day of marching under the blistering summer sun and gathering extra layers of sweat, blood and dust did little to improve the smell.

It came as some relief when the walls and flag of the Friendly Arm Inn finally rose into view. It came as even more of a relief when the captain announced that they would be allowed to use the baths and laundry services of the inn.

Provided they paid their own way of course. _Damn_ that dwarf was stingy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little Realmslore: Cassil is an herbal form of birth control used by men, and Archers and Elemental Empires are card games.
> 
> Also Coran's incredibly silly line about searching for 'perfect beauty' and finding a piece of it in every woman is something I paraphrased from the Baldur's Gate NPC Project mod. And Coran himself got introduced a little earlier than usual because I thought partnering him with Kivan would be fun.


	18. A Fine Day to Die

_ "Great peril yields great beauty."  _ – old elven saying.

* * *

All told the price to use the baths and have your clothes laundered and hung in front of the hearth was seven silver. Well worth it in Ashura's opinion, especially after all they had been through. The steam baths seemed to be a big draw at the Friendly Arm, but she didn't quite understand how sweating _more_ after the long march under the Kythorn sun would be a good thing, so she forwent that. Instead she soaked herself a bit with the oily and salted water that the attendants handed out, and then took the plunge into the great wooden tub that dominated the women's bath hall.

Aches and burdens she hadn't known were there floated away as she lounged in the warm water, along with the dust of the Tradeway. She spent a long time soaking, nearly dozing off at one point before Imoen awakened her with a splash.

With reluctance she eventually rose from the tub. There were sea-sponges for scrubbing and buckets of clean water to finish the job. Wrapping herself in a thick sheet of linen Ashura finally left the bathing hall and went to the front room, a sort of lounge where women in robes or drying-sheets reclined and chatted, warmed by a wide hearth that also dried their freshly laundered clothes. In addition to puffs of smoke from the fireplace there was a scent of spiced tobacco in the air as a few of the travelers puffed on pipes; a gnomish custom, but it seemed to have rubbed off on some of the humans. The crowd was a mix of the caravaners and guests of the inn, and much like the first time she had visited the Friendly Arm the air was tense with talk of the dangerous roads along with something new: a persistent rumor that Amn was plotting some sort of invasion.

"Aye," she heard one middle-aged woman say with a nod. "They're flush with treasure from the New World and buying weapons and supplies like you wouldn't believe. Mark my word, an empire gets a little taste of new territory and they start expanding every which way. All this while our swords are still turning to dust in our hands."

After a time Ashura decided the chamber was a bit too stuffy and humid for her taste, not to mention full of talk she didn't want to hear. Quietly she stepped out of the lounge and into the cooler air of the night.

Once she had taken a few careful steps onto the stones she wiggled her toes a bit and stretched. The cobbled walkway beneath her feet was still a bit warm, nearly an hour after sunset. What she wouldn't give for a good solid thunderstorm to sweep in and blow the oppressive summer air away. Still, it was pleasant enough at the moment, and she found herself breathing in deep and smiling.

The faint whispers of the inn and its patrons wafted down from bright windows high above her, and she remembered the last night she had been to here; the night she'd watched the assassin descended from the keep. Where there more bounty hunters lurking up there in the taproom tonight? She hadn't encountered an assassin in a good while. Perhaps Nina the caravan guard had slipped there notice.

"Ah," sang a familiar, husky voice, "a rare smile lights your face, along with the starlight. It suits you. Perhaps you could wear it more often?" Coran had quietly stepped over from the door to the men's baths; a sheet similar to Ashura's wrapped around his waist. In the dim light cast by a nearby lamp it was clear that he did indeed have a tattoo across his slender abdomen. It was a similar pattern to what Chera had described: vines circling his navel from which an impossible variety of flowers bloomed in reds, yellows, oranges, blues and violets. Ashura vaguely remembered seeing the motif before. Some elven symbol of nature's bounty. Beneath the flowers there was a hint of something golden, cut off by the hem of the sheet. _Hanali's hair is blonde isn't it?_

"Happy to finally have a bath," Ashura stated, looking up into Coran's shimmering almond eyes. Despite the balmy air she felt gooseflesh rise, and suppressed a shiver.

He casually strode closer, moving a bit to the side in a manner that forced Ashura to turn and follow his motions. There was something in the gesture that reminded her of a stalking cat, or a warrior casually maneuvering so that the light is in his opponent's eyes. Of course that warm, disarming smile was always on the elf's face. "What's this? You're trying to flank me?" she asked, fighting back her own smile.

"Finding the perfect light to illuminate your features," he replied, looking almost offended.

_ Of course he'd say something like that. _

He reached out and gestured with a fingertip close to her cheek, not quite touching. He was only slightly taller than she, her nose at the level of his lips. "Whatever makes you happy, keep at it," the elf added. "Most of the time you look as if you're challenging Kivan in a scowling contest." His fingertip traced along her cheekbone, then withdrew. "You may not know it but most of the time you wear a mask of grim anger tinged with sadness on your face. It doesn't suit your beauty."

Ashura scoffed. "You don't know what suits me." Still she could feel a conspicuous amount of heat in her face. _How annoying_.

"The same things that suit everyone." Coran gestured towards the empty courtyard. "Adventure. Joy. Laughter under the stars."

Where he waved his hand she saw dusty stones, lanterns and shadows. "Don't see much adventure here."

Coran's eyes brightened. "Oh, there's always adventure to be had at an inn. And this one more than most. It's vast and full of cozy nooks, quiet sheds, haylofts and deep cellars just waiting to be explored." He reached out once more and gently placed a hand on her bare shoulder. "Come along and I'll show you."

"You've explored all the little crannies here, have you?"

"At other inns perhaps, but not here. And I'm eager to make new discoveries." He was circling again, turning her with him, perhaps eager to guide her to some hidden-away loft or shed. She was tempted to let him as well, as she smiled up into his eyes for a moment. Branwen's words came to her; how battle and death always threatened to arrive on the morrow, so one should take hold of life's pleasures when they were offered. There had been many brushes with death since that conversation and splash in the mountain river. Close brushes.

Yet there was something else that tugged at her. The urge to not let this transparent little lecher win at the game he was obviously playing. Something told her that if she did she would instantly regret it. It brought a sour memory back as well: Hull, and the way his bragging to everyone afterwards had ruined a perfectly good night…

In the end Ashura backed away, though she couldn't shake the smile from her face. "I don't go on any adventures without my swordbelt," she said. True enough too. Wandering out into the dark in nothing but a cloth, with a bounty on her head? What had she been thinking?

"Oh you won't need-"

She hushed him with a fingertip against his lips. "I always need my swords. Aught to fetch my clothes and armor too. I have picket duty pretty soon."

Before Coran could respond or lose his coy smile she turned and pushed the door of the bathhouse open. On a whim she whipped the linen sheet away as she passed over the threshold and tossed it onto a nearby bench. Before the door creaked shut she felt his eyes upon her, and now it was her turn to smile smugly.

* * *

Once the oxen and horses were watered and they had done one last check of the yokes and wagon wheels, the caravan began to wind around the walls of the Friendly Arm. This was the last leg of the journey to Baldur's Gate, a stretch where the road zigzagged a bit and then gradually went northward between the Cloakwood and Wood of Sharp Teeth. Once they passed the forests, the lakes of Peldvale and some farmland the road would turn sharply west and cross the Chionthar River beneath the walls of the Gate.

According to caravan gossip Peldvale was about a day's ride up ahead. Perhaps they could arrange to capture a few bandits and interrogate them the next time they were attacked, for the sake of Xan's mission. Personally Ashura found herself hoping that the journey would be disappointingly uneventful, and they would have to restock and rethink their search for the Bandit King in Baldur's Gate (after getting paid.) There was a tightening in her stomach that told her it wouldn't work out that way though. That and all of the refugees that seemed to keep piling up in the Friendly Arm.

She had once read that the Wood of Sharp Teeth took its name from a notorious band of werewolves that used to live there. Of course all the refugees talked of were bandits, bandits and more bandits. Either way Ashura felt as if they were driving their caravan towards the mouth of some great beast.

White pines and a few proud oaks dotted the open green landscape, clumped here and there in fields cleared by generations of logging. Up ahead the wood grew thicker, forming a wall of green on the eastern horizon. The sky was grey above, for once hiding the rising summer sun.

The road ahead eventually curved and matched the forest's edge, the line of raised stone and gravel falling under the shadows of the tall trees. Long before the oxcarts drew near the woods, the scouts rode ahead, dismounted at the forest's edge and pulled their cloaks tight about their bodies. The dull green of the elven fabric brightened a bit and added grey and brown streaks to match the color of the woods. With a step or two forward the scouts vanished before Ashura's eyes.

Keeping as far on the meadow-side of the road as they could the carts groaned and wobbled along, heading north and skirting the forest. The highway passed slowly under the wagon wheels and the feet of the caravan guards, and as they marched birdsong echoed from the branches above. It was reassuring; the sounds of the forest. In the old adventure stories they always mentioned the birds and other creatures growing deathly silent just before an ambush, though experience had taught Ashura that was not always the case. Birds don't care if the people passing beneath them are simply walking by or readying their weapons for an attack.

It was perhaps an hour after they reached the forest that the usual murmurs went up and down the line of carts. This time the nervous chatter was caused by a _lack_ of news. Neither of the scouts had reported back at the appointed time, much to the captain's annoyance. Over the course of the journey this had happened twice before, but it always sent a prickle of unease through the line of guards. Eventually the captain barked for silence and the talk from wagon to wagon died away.

Accompanied by nothing but the clicking of the oxen's hooves and the creaking of crates they trudged down the road. Hooves, wheels, crates…but the sound of birdsong was gone. Ashura noticed just as the air was filled with the whistle of a dozen or more arrows flying from the woods. As she dove behind the cart and the sounds of thumping and piercing screams filled the air she wondered if maybe there was some wisdom hidden in those old adventure stories.

Amili -the slender drover- had been been the source of one of the screams. An arrow had struck her side and sent her tumbling off the wagon. Limp, she rolled to the lip of the ditch as the oxcart continued to thunder along, the beasts snorting and braying. Garrick had begun one of his songs now; hopefully he'd calm the oxen and horses before there was a stampede.

From her seat atop the cart Chera howled with rage and fired a crossbow bolt wildly between the trees. As soon as the bolt was loosed she jumped from her seat and rushed towards her friend. The archers among the caravan guards were returning fire now, hunched behind their wagons.

Through the gap beneath her own wagon Ashura could see Chera rushing towards her fallen companion. The teamster grabbed the slender woman by the shoulders, intent on dragging her to safety. Amili was still limp as she slid through the grass, and the arrow and wound in her side seemed to leak a strange white mist. A few tendrils of the same frosty substance puffed from her nostrils and open mouth.

_ Nine bloody Hells! They're both on the wrong side of the carts! _

Sure enough the next volley of arrows flew from the trees before Amili had been dragged five feet, and at least half of them were aimed at Chera. Five struck and four sunk deep, shock and pain dropping the woman to her knees. More white mist rose from Chera's chest and when she fell forward across the still body of her friend there was a brittle, crinkling sound. Some sort of frost magic on the arrows was Ashura's best guess. _Damn._

At least the second volley had given the guards a better idea of where the bandits were, and their counterattack included a hissing ball of flame that set trees ablaze and sent a few cloaked bodies flying. The explosion was quickly followed by a streak of lightning from Imoen's wand, which hit a different patch of underbrush but seemed to strike true, judging by the screams.

The next time arrows flew from the forest it seemed sporadic rather than a coordinated volley. Unfortunately several oxen lurched and fell, and despite Garrick's best efforts cries of braying terror accompanied the oxen's screams of pain. Ashura found herself stumbling back as the cart in front of her lurched and took off.

Somewhere nearby Kagain was shouting. Something about forming up, but Ashura had no desire to stand there in the open while arrows were flying. So -as in many battles before- when there seemed to be nowhere to go but forward she simply leaned in and charged.

It was a fine, familiar feeling: the wind whipping by her face as the stones and gravel and grass passed beneath her. The twinging sensation that came when her boots sensed danger ran across her brow and she twisted her head and dipped a bit to the side. Sure enough an arrow flew by, missing her head by half a finger's length. Icy mist trailed it like a comet's tail, and a cold sting bit into Ashura's cheek.

The pain was invigorating.

Without breaking her stride she plunged into the brush, swords leading the way. The face of a hooded man who was knocking an arrow suddenly loomed before her. His eyes were wide with shock, then his face contorted as she ran him through and crashed into his body. The bandit stumbled about three steps before his back slammed into a tree trunk. Ashura's sword pierced the bark.

Nearby movement made her turn from the convulsing body and raise her lefthand sword, but not quickly enough. Sharp pain in her side sent her hopping back and her fingers released her righthand weapon as she went. Bits of chainmail fell to the forest floor while her opponent raised a longsword and attempted a second blow. Ashura managed to lash back, steel following steel.

Her enemy was a blonde woman with Illuskan features, and she wore well-made scale armor under her forest cloak. She deftly wielded her sword as well, weaving through feint after feint that Ashura barely managed to follow and counter.

Backing slightly Ashura pressed herself close to the trunk of the tree and the shuddering body she had planted there. Her right hand found the hilt of her other sword. If she could just find the strength and leverage… _yes!_ The sword was not buried deep and slid out of the dying man with a decent yank. The Illuskan woman was going for a high slash too. Ashura's left sword followed that of her enemy's and their blades locked briefly, giving her a chance to press in close and slam the pommel of her righthand weapon into her opponent's stomach.

It would have been a perfect move if not for the bandit-woman's armor. As it was the pommel-strike barely fazed the Illuskan, and Ashura got a punch to her face for the trouble. They tussled like that for a moment, too close to use their swords, before disengaging and hopping back a pace each. That gave Ashura a chance to turn her righthand sword around and take a proper dueling stance, both weapons ready. Now to see if having them both could make the difference. Ashura didn't fool herself; her opponent was obviously an experienced fencer and two weapons were only better than one if you were truly ambidextrous and used them just right. Otherwise the extra weapon (and the amount of your body that you exposed swinging it,) simply became a liability.

She was denied a proper duel when an arrow sailed in and struck the Illuskan in the back. The woman lurched forward and stumbled a bit, her sword hanging weakly at her side. Grateful, Ashura took full advantage. She stomped forward, knocked the bandit's weapon aside and drove her other sword through one of her opponent's bright blue eyes.

After ripping her weapon out of the dying woman's skull Ashura looked up and saw the archer who had relieved her. Kivan already had another arrow knocked. He looked worn and covered in blood but he managed to give Ashura a pained nod of his head before turning towards the sounds of battle and stalking away. As the scout slipped through the brambles Ashura followed, clumsily pushing branches and undergrowth aside.

In a clearing beyond Branwen and Kagain stood back-to-back, fending off three remaining bandits. The priestess was a riot of colors: there was a nimbus of golden energy around her whole body, her shield shimmered with violet light and familiar blue energy danced on her hammer. Kagain was just caked in blood. The bandits they faced all wore heavy scale armor similar to the Illuskan woman's.

As Ashura raced forward she saw a bandit's sword slip past Branwen's guard and bounce uselessly off the barrier around her. The Norlander countered with a blow from her hammer that seemed to cave the man's chest in and double him over. Her next strike buried her hammer almost fully into the back of the bandit's skull. A surprise arrow from Kivan and slash from Ashura's swords took the other two raiders down.

"Alas," Branwen pouted as she lifted her blackened warhammer and watched Ashura slit the throat of the bandit she had just knocked to the ground. "He was next for my hammer." Elsewhere the sounds of battle had died away.

"Bah," Kagain growled. "No time for personal glory. I suspect your healing arts are in great demand. Starting with him." He pointed at Kivan.

Kivan shook his head weakly. "No."

"Don't be a baby," Kagain barked.

"Others may be dying," Kivan said through gritted teeth. "I'll live. She should go tend to them first."

The captain cocked his head and shrugged. "Don't like it when folks disobey orders but that's actually a good idea." Reaching out he grabbed Branwen's bicep and pulled her towards the highway. "Let's make a quick sweep of things and regroup on the road. Prioritize the most grievously wounded." He then pointed at Ashura. "Nina, you're just a bit scratched. Search these woods for survivors best you can. I'll try to send other guards with you when I find 'em."

She nodded and began making her way through the now eerily quiet forest. Thankfully she found only corpses and burnt trees.

Thanks to one of Xan's spells the runaway oxcarts had been halted and gathered back together, but the attack had been devastating nonetheless. As Ashura had suspected both teamsters from her cart were dead, as were three others who had been caught by stray arrows in the initial ambush. Four guards had been killed as well, and they were down to fewer than the minimum amount of oxen they needed to pull every cart.

Beyond the dead much of the caravan crew was badly injured, including Coran, who Ashura was glad to see alive. The scout had taken a surprise arrow in the stomach when he and Kivan had been spotted by wary bandits, and his partner had barely managed to fight their way out. Branwen and the other cleric's healing prayers were quickly tapped out bringing the survivors back up to strength.

Ashura was surprised to see young Lord Silvershield out and about, assessing the damage. In the end he concluded that they needed to abandon both supply wagons. If worse came to worse they could finish the journey with one teamster minding each cart, but it took a lot of oxen to haul their heavy iron cargo.

As the teamsters got to work consolidating the wagons the captain sent some of the guards out on 'ragpicker duty,' searching the bodies of the dead bandits for anything of value. It was something the copper-pinching old mercenary ordered after every battle, but he seemed especially stern this time when he shouted: "Squeeze the bastards for all they're worth. And if I catch any of you pugs skimming coins or jewelry I'll chop off your hands m'self. That's company property, and we'll all get a fair percentage from the pot when this is through."

His tone of voice made it clear he still believed they would get through, at least. Ashura was one of the guards sent into the forest, and strange as the little ritual of combing over corpses was she was growing used to it. It seemed like at least a quarter of the time spent 'adventuring' involved picking out choice steel weapons, unfastening and stripping off undamaged pieces of armor and rummaging through the clothing of dead people for coins and jewelry, all while doing your best to ignore the smell. Most gruesome of all was the fact that they were required to collect a scalp from each bandit. Supposedly the Flaming Fist was offering a reward for those.

Still, it was a little thrilling every time something bright and shiny was spotted. She was tempted to drop a few gems in her personal coinpurse, but she opted not to tempt Kagain's axe. The fact that there was still enough gold from the Nashkel reward and other assorted looting to live off of also helped.

It was some time before everything was in order, and well into mid afternoon before the caravan began to cautiously lumber down the road again. Ashura and Garrick were moved to replace the team that had been guarding Eddard's coach, where they marched beside the captain himself. It seemed like a place of honor, but if Kagain had extra respect for their skills he didn't show it. Silent and tireless, the captain marched them on.

The caravan only hobbled along the road for a few hours before they found a field that seemed like a good spot to make camp. Kagain ordered that they park the wagons in a tight circle, and the few gaps between them were filled with wooden barricades. There was enough space in the circle for them to build a decent firepit and lay their bedrolls out, which they did as the shadows deepened. Once again eveningfeast would come from the carcass of one of the oxen.

Ashura found Coran and Branwen by the fire, their faces long and haggard. The elf was on his back, cloak wrapped around himself like a blanket, and when he looked up to watch her approach he cringed, as if every slight movement brought pain.

Kneeling down Ashura placed a hand on the Coran's shoulder. "Glad you're still alive," she said.

"Glad enough for a kiss?" he asked weakly.

Ashura chuckled. "You still think this is some sort of pleasure trip? Really?"

"They say that…" he grimaced for a moment, shifting under his cloak. "That 'Great peril yields great beauty.'"

"I'm pretty sure it just yields death and destruction," Ashura retorted. She was a little sad to see the laughter leave Coran's eyes. "Hey now," she added. "Don't you start scowling like me and Kivan."

Bending down she briefly pressed her lips to his. When she rose and leaned back there was a shocked look on Coran's face, and for once he seemed at a loss for words. "Maybe they're right after all," she said as she gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze before standing up. "Get your strength back okay?"

* * *

After some time on a shift at the picket Ashura retired to her bedroll and tried to settle in. Finding a comfortable position while laying down in her armor was something she doubted she could ever do, and the tension that hung over the camp was enough to keep her awake regardless. Perhaps at some point she dozed off briefly.

When shouts of alarm echoed across the camp and icewater surged through her veins it was clear she would not be getting back to sleep. Throwing the bedroll aside she clambered to her feet, winced at a crick in her back, and strapped her swordbelt on.

At least there were no arrows flying yet. It seemed the alarm was raised simply because the outer guards had spotted something. What that something was became clear a moment later when a strange man's voice boomed from the darkness.

"You are surrounded, outnumbered and outarmed," it announced. "Lay down your weapons and surrender, and you may leave unharmed." So the bandits were actually talking this time. _How novel._

"Sod that," Kagain hissed back. "We've cut our way through hundreds of you up the coast. What's a couple more?"

Ashura found her way to one of the wooden barricades propped up between the horse-drawn carriage and an oxcart. She huddled down beside Garrick and peered into the darkness.

"Wish I had your nightvision Nina," the young man whispered.

Ashura shrugged. "Can't see shit at the moment. If there're warm bodies out there they're hidden behind the trees." _Hm_. Maybe the bandit was bluffing.

Again he shouted: "We've been watching your caravan bleed its way up to our forest, and I'm betting your all on your last legs. So know this: if any of you grunts decide to surrender at any time you'll be spared. Might even get to join us and make some real coin. Of course we're going to kill your boss, and we're going to make that slow as possible. And if you want to help us off the dwarf you're welcome to it."

He let the words hang over them for a time, but no one moved or replied. Finally the bandit lost his patience and shouted: "Alright then. Light 'em up lads."

Ashura cringed at that, wondering if fire was about to start raining down, but instead eight bright globes of light arched up from the trees and hung over the camp, illuminating the faces of the guards and teamsters. She recognized the spell: a minor light cantrip. _Lighting us up. So the archers can find targets._

Her guess was right, and as she curled up small as she could behind the barricade there were whistles in the air and sharp _thunks_ everywhere. A storm of arrows was raining down.


	19. Between Sharp Teeth

_ "Shed not a tear for them, for as we speak they ride the icy winds to Valhalla, carried aloft by their own battle cries." – _ Barsar of Glorium, _"Climbing the Branches of Yggdrasil"_

* * *

Grunts, gasps and screams of agony accompanied the hail of arrows. Nowhere within the circle of wagons was safe from the storm; even one of the guards who hunched up close against the side of his cart went down, an arrow-shaft protruding from the top of his skull.

Glaring up at the lights that hung over everyone Kagain growled: "Someone put those damn things out!"

An instant later Branwen obliged, raising her hands to the heavens and shouting out a prayer in the tongue of her homeland. " _Inavnet pa Foehammer, rensedette stedet for magi!_ " A blazing flash of light expanded from her palms and the little spheres above them all went out with a buzz and a pop. A few breaths later eight more lights floated overhead and seamlessly took their place.

"Purging magic takes a pretty strong spell," the bandit leader taunted them, an obvious smile in his voice. "And that illumination spell is just a minor cantrip. Come on folks, we can do this all night."

The only truly safe spot for the moment seemed to be under the carts themselves, where many of the surviving guards had crawled. The low wagon bottoms provided shelter enough, but Imoen found there was no way to return fire, scrunched up flat on her belly as she was. No doubt the bandits would send in foot-soldiers next, or worse those spell-slingers would hit them with something. On their stomachs by her side Xan and Coran had also taken cover. _Hm_. That gave her an idea.

"Coran," she whispered. "Give me your cloak!"

"If you wanted me to strip…" the elf began.

"Now is _not_ the time!" she hissed back in a tone that shut him up. "Stuff the innuendo and just hand over the cloak!"

Coran unfastened the elven garment sullenly and offered it to her, all the little motions still making him cringe. He was certainly in no shape to fight. "Very well, lady bandit," he quipped. "Just try not to rip it."

"I'm sure it will be full of arrow holes in a moment," Xan muttered.

"That's not part of my plan," Imoen retorted as she placed the much larger green garment over her short violet raincloak and fastened it tight. "Okay, now Xan: invis me."

"In-what-now?"

"Cast a spell of invisibility on me."

"How do you even-"

"Because I've looked at your spellbook and the way you study it each night. You have that spell prepared. I know."

"I do," the moon elf admitted. Imoen guessed it was something he was saving for a possible escape. "What is your plan exactly?"

"Be invisible," Imoen replied, "sneak out there, find and kill the bandit spellcasters, then use the cloak to hopefully hide and sneak back after they're dead. Pretty simple." She grinned weakly.

"So your plan _is_ to get the cloak filled with arrow holes," Xan said.

"Not if I can help it," Imoen growled impatiently. "That's a _dancing lights_ spell they're throwing over us. You can produce four lights with each spell, so I'm guessing they have two spellcasters. I think they're holding back cause they don't want to damage the cargo, but if those mages start throwing fireballs or whatnot we're all fucked. So just bloody invis me before they blow us up!"

Xan groaned. "I still think you're going to get yourself killed."

"Do you have a better plan?"

He didn't. So he simply sighed, placed a gentle hand on Imoen's shoulder and spoke familiar arcane words. " _Umbriel vistias quiel._ "

A strange tingling ran through Imoen and a red-and-white rainbow briefly danced before her eyes. When the shimmer faded away she raised a hand up before her and saw nothing. _Perfect._ Tightening the elven cloak around her shoulders she crawled wordlessly out from under the wagon. Quick and quiet, the girl padded across the open meadow from there.

Infravision gave her a good view of the bandits now: glowing bodies leaning against the trunks of trees or hiding under the needled branches of pine saplings. Most were staggered out pretty far from each other. There were a decent number of archers but not nearly enough to 'surround' the caravan like the leader had implied. _What a surprise._

The head bandit had said 'Light 'em up lads' before the light spells flew. Maybe she was reading too much into it but she hoped it was an indication that both of the enemy mages were men. If so it was just a matter of finding two guys who weren't heavily armed or armored, giving them each the old arrow-through-the-eye, and then running the Hells away. _Simple enough_.

Of course her hands – along with her bow and arrows – were invisible now. Could she even aim properly this way? She had always sighted down the shaft before, and though archery was pretty reflexive by now it seemed the invisible bow might throw her off. _Note to self: always try to accompany invisibility with a 'see invisible' spell. That is when you master the darn magic in the first place._

Maybe getting in close and using her dagger would work better. Either way, once she attacked she'd become visible, and then it would be panic-and-try-to-escape time. _Great planning Immy._

Skirting her way along the tree line she tried to resist the urge to duck down and hide from the human and hobgoblin archers. Some were looking right past and even through her. _Just focus on not making any noise. Move quickly._

As she passed a few more grim men in hooded leather she spotted what she had been searching for: a man who wasn't wearing armor or carrying a weapon. He had a leathery face, sandy-blonde hair tied sharply back and sturdy looking, utilitarian clothing. In the stories mages always had long white beards and wore robes of one sort or another, but Imoen had found that in the real world more often than not they just dressed like regular people. Either way it was easy to spot a spellcaster on a battlefield: look for an important-looking person who wasn't wearing armor.

Knocking an arrow and taking aim while just trusting that the weapon is in front of you _did_ feel a little strange. Still it wasn't hard to play it by feel. _Maybe I can shoot people with my eyes closed._ As the bowstring strained she knew – just knew – that the arrow was trained on the man. She could do this!

With a twang the string released and the arrow, bow, and Imoen herself shimmered back into visibility. The shaft flew true: right towards the mage's chest. A bubble of violet shimmered into being between the arrowhead and the man before he was struck, and the shot bounced away harmlessly.

_ One of those magic arrow-shields! Shit! _

The bandit-mage immediately swung around and looked in Imoen's direction, his hands raised and dancing through the motions of a spell. As he did she flung her cloak tightly around herself and dashed away, running for a nearby stand of trees where her infravision showed no warm bodies. The elven cloak would match the color of her surroundings, but it didn't mean much when you were in motion. Maybe the darkness was enough. Maybe the mage hadn't sighted her yet.

He completed his spell and pale orange light burst from his hands. It streaked towards the spot Imoen had launched the arrow from and sent a ripple through the air, but by then she was leaning against an oak trunk a good fifteen paces away, wrapped up in the cloak. _Good._ He hadn't seen her yet.

And Imoen had some tricks of her own.

She had begun to whisper a spell the moment that she reached the trees, her curling fingers pointed at a spot to the bandit-mage's left. A breath later something appeared on the grass near the man. Following her mental directions the _something_ Imoen had conjured up rose silently to its feet and dramatically threw back its cloak to reveal two gleaming scimitars. It was her best illusory imitation of Kivan, done from memory. The image was maybe a foot taller than the real elven scout, and the smoldering rage was perhaps a bit exaggerated, but it had the desired effect on the mage. To him an elven ranger had just made his presence known, drawn his weapons and silently begun to stalk towards him. _(Rangers usually fight with twin scimitars right?)_ The bandit-mage aimed his fingers at the illusion and frantically barked out the words of a spell

_ Quick and quiet _ , Imoen thought, silently racing towards the mage from the other side. Bright red flares lit the night as bolts of magic leapt from the mage's fingers and struck the silent illusion, passing right through and making the image waver. By then Imoen was close enough, bow slung on her shoulder and dagger out. With a leap she collided with the mage and plunged her blade into his back. It sunk to the hilt.

_ Good. No barrier.  _ She gripped the bandit by the shoulder and twisted the dagger. His resistance was feeble and he quickly slumped to his knees and fell over. _Must have hit something vital._ When the mage hit the ground Imoen yanked her dagger free and ran. A good thing too, as she heard the whistle of arrows at her back a heartbeat later.

She danced under the branches of a pine sapling and wrapped the cloak tight. After a long, tense stretch had passed without bandits approaching she took a chance and peeked around the tree. No one was nearby. So they hadn't seen her yet. But what now?

At the circle of wagons all-out battle had broken out. The wooden barricades had been knocked aside and bodies lay strewn at the gaps between the carts. Most of the fallen were hobgoblin, but in just a glance Imoen saw the lifeless faces of two caravan guards. There was a gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach. Where her friends even alive? _No_ , _no, no_ , she couldn't think like that. She had to do something; at least take some of the bastards down with her.

After a brief, silent prayer to Mask Imoen plucked an arrow from her quiver, set it to the bow and began to stalk about the periphery of the battlefield. There was no sign of the second spellcaster but she did spot an archer who seemed to be alone behind a tree. Drawing her bowstring back and tight, Imoen waited for any loud noise that could give her cover. When a crashing sound came from the circle of wagons she took advantage and loosed.

The arrow pierced the bandit's throat and he went down gasping and clutching at the shaft. The moment after she fired Imoen was on the move, but by the grace of the gods it seemed no one had spotted her yet.

As she crept past some tall brush, careful not to rattle any leaves, she noticed a man who seemed to stand out in the open. He was constantly gesturing with his sword, directing sorties of hobgoblins as they charged the wagons from different angles.

Imoen guessed that this was the bandit commander, and it would be easy enough to shoot an arrow at him (he almost seemed to be daring an attack,) but unlike most of the enemy the man was clad from head to toe in heavy armor. His chest was protected by plated-mail, there was a skirt of chainmail hanging from his waist to his knees, steel shin-guards protected his legs and he even wore gauntlets, a helmet and a loop of steel around his neck. Along with his sword he carried a broad wooden shield where a few arrows were stuck. Maybe she could have sent an arrow through a gap in his armor with a _trueshot_ spell, but she had already used those up. _Dang_.

Instead Imoen chose a softer target, picking out a hobgoblin in motley armor who seemed to command a couple of archers and wielded a bow himself. This could be the last arrow –the last chance- before she drew attention to herself and had to flee.

Flee at best. Fight at worst. _Die most likely._

_ No! _ She couldn't think like that. _Shurra's in there somewhere, fighting for her life. And Garrick._ She drew her bowstring back and waited for an opportunity; some distracting noise or the flash of a spell. If nothing came soon she'd just roll the dice and shoot. She had to do something.

The distraction came in spectacular fashion. With the whine of steel and the crack of wooden boards four hobgoblins burst through a gap in the wagon circle and came charging out, swords raised as they ran in the direction of the bandit leader. There was no fear in their eyes, just blank looks, and their charge was followed by a ghostly, glowing hammer that skimmed along the ground. Panicked gasps rose from the bandit archers, uncertain how to deal with their strangely behaving companions.

When the chaos erupted Imoen didn't hesitate to loose her arrow. It struck the hobgoblin squarely between his shoulder blades and sank deep into his leathers. He stumbled at first, but a rapidly-drawn second arrow was enough to send him slumping to the grass.

As the hammer of force flew behind the charging hobgoblins its owner appeared, dashing forward through the gap. Branwen was wreathed in glowing lights, auras of white and gold and blue competing to give her torn and dented armor a prismatic sheen. Like all the other times Imoen had seen the priestess arm and armor herself with the power of her god she seemed to move with greater strength and certainty, but beneath the glow the Northlander was in poor shape. There was a broken arrow-shaft deep in her shoulder, nearly half her face was smeared with blood that seemed to seep from a black wound at her hairline, and many of the scales of Branwen's armor were bent or torn away, blackened with blood that may have been her own. The priestess's shield had been torn and smashed into a collection of splinters at her elbow.

Still, driven by the power of Tempus or adrenaline or blood-lust or all-of-the-above, the Northlander charged fast behind her flying hammer. _What is she doing?_ Imoen wondered.

As fast as it had begun, the charge of the insane hobgoblins faltered. One by one the beasts in front broke off, puzzled looks on their faces as they glanced around. Only one of the hobs continued to run full-speed at the bandit-leader, slashing out with his sword when the distance was closed. The armored man effortlessly riposted and plunged the tip of his blade into the hobgoblin's forehead.

The ghostly hammer flew over the dying hobgoblin and bounced off the bandit leader's shield with a loud crack. The hammer sailed back a few feet, hovered, and then swung in again as Branwen neared striking distance with her earthly weapon in hand. Two arrows flew at her as she charged, but both fell away harmlessly, repelled by her divine aura.

For a few quick, furious moments steel rang and wood groaned as the armored man and the glowing warpriestess exchanged blows. The bandit managed to redirect Branwen's steel hammer with his sword and block the magical weapon with his shield all at once, the two combatants circling and twisting. Imoen knocked an arrow and followed them with her bow. Maybe she could help…

When she judged the moment right and loosed her arrow it hit the bandit squarely in the back. Her heart sank when the arrow simply bounced off his breastplate and fell to the ground. She wasn't even sure if he had noticed. _Damn._

Fearing that her shot had drawn attention Imoen moved again, crouching and crawling along through the brush and keeping to big stones and trees wherever she could. Her hand slid back to her quiver as she went, and her fingers clutched at air for a moment before finding a handful of feathered shafts. _Double-damn!_ She was down to four arrows.

The ghost-hammer collided with the warrior's shield one last time before winking out in a burst of sparks. The blows had left the tall, reinforced bulwark battered and nearly broken in half, but there was still enough of it left for the bandit to slam against Branwen's next hammer-blow. His sword slipped beneath his rising shield in a quick stab at the same time. The barrier that wreathed the priestess flared but could not stop the blade from piercing her scaled armor and torso beneath. She faltered and stumbled and he pressed the advantage, driving his sword in deep before slamming the remains of his shield into her face and knocking her back and off the blade.

Another step back and Branwen sank to her knees. An involuntary cough ran through her body and pink, foamy blood dripped from a corner of her mouth.

Raising his sword for a wide stroke the bandit-leader took a few deep gasps for air and then spoke. "You should yield while you still draw breath. The Black Talon could benefit from a war-wench like you, and we pay well."

The protective aura still hung, faint but fading, around Branwen. However the blue glow about her hammer burned as bright as ever. Loose hair soaked with sweat and blood covered her face as she leaned forward and fought to stay upright. "My…" she wheezed.

The bandit cocked his head to listen but his sword was one quick stroke from her throat.

"…last…breath…"

"I guess-" the bandit began.

"For victory!" And as she shouted Branwen pushed her hammer and body up in a sudden burst of strength. The chainmail the bandit-leader wore hanging about his loins would have likely protected him from an arrow, maybe even blocked a sword's slash, but it did little to stop a magical hammer slamming upwards into his groin.

The man's slash at Branwen went wide and he doubled over in agony, falling to his knees just as his opponent found her feet. With two hands the priestess hefted her warhammer and slammed it down into the bandit's helm, caving it in and sending a shower of teeth, blood and bits of skull through the gap in the front. At the same time six arrows flew in near unison and sank into Branwen's body. When she dropped to her knees a second time there was no pause before she toppled face-first to the grass.

There were furious shouts from the remaining bandits in the trees, few as there seemed to be left. The word "Teven" was repeated several times. Probably the bandit-leader's name.

Doubtless Branwen had gone for their commander to break the enemy's resolve. The effect his death had was a bit different however. Before Imoen could sight an arrow on any of the murmuring enemies someone shouted: "Fuck this! Fuck the cargo! Burn 'em all!"

There was no debate among the brigands. In an instant six arrows wreathed in magical flames flew through the air in an arc and planted themselves into the sides of several carts. As the fire began to spread the barrage was followed by something even worse: a sphere of white-hot light that streaked through the darkness like an angry falling star. When it struck the caravan it lit the night in an explosion of flame and heat that forced Imoen to look away. With a sinking sense of failure and horror she realized that she had never found the second mage.

* * *

Back pressed to the wall of the carriage, Ashura desperately fought to maneuver and repel the broad, bat-faced creature that loomed above her. The hilt of her right sword was locked with the hilt of the hobgoblin's, metal grinding, and her other blade was buried deep in his round hide shield, keeping his arm locked back but doing little else.

Baring sharp fangs and roaring the hobgoblin pressed closer, foul breath and spittle hitting Ashura's face. He was near enough to bite, his braided beard shaking with the undulating howl. She managed to find leverage and deliver a kick that made the beast-man clinch his teeth and reel back before those fangs could clamp down on anything.

As he did Ashura pulled backwards as well. She yanked and twisted, trying to get her sword free from the hobgoblin's shield. With a lurch she succeeded but found herself grunting and nearly losing her breath from the force of a quick shield-bash. The blow slammed her against the wall of the carriage.

The hobgoblin followed the bash by hefting his sword, and Ashura crossed her own blades defensively before her. Before the next blow could be struck a thin shaft of steel flashed by and plunged into one side of the hobgoblin's neck, bursting out the other side in a shower of red. Just as quick the rapier withdrew and the orange creature instinctively dropped his sword and pressed a hand to his throat to stem the sudden tide of blood. Stabs from both of Ashura's blades sent him stumbling back and crumpling over.

At the top of the three steps that led to the carriage door Garrick crouched, trying to hold his dripping rapier steady. The line of hobgoblins that had pressed them up against the carriage was withdrawing for a moment, shields locking together as the creatures chanted something in their deep, guttural language. They growled out the words in unison, rhythmic as any war-drum.

"Thanks," Ashura whispered to her partner breathlessly. Risking a side-glance she confirmed a suspicion: Eddard's bodyguard lay still on the ground. A shame. He had fought well, quick and precise with his dueling dagger and sword. When the most recent wave of Chill warriors had pressed them back she had seen the man take an unlucky blow to the side of his head and fall to the ground, then all had been a flurry of goblin limbs and swords and shields.

Garrick took advantage of the pause in the melee to slap a new crossbow bolt in, fumbling to hold both the crossbow and the rapier at once. Ashura simply tried to catch her breath. There wouldn't be much time, she knew.

"Ahv!" one of the goblins barked and the six remaining warriors repeated the command in unison. The rumbling word of their battle-chant brought the hobgoblins together in a tightly arranged line.

"Kresh!" With the next word they locked shields, each piece of stretched hide painted bright with the upraised fist of the Chill sigil. Ashura would have been admiring their discipline and precision if she didn't want every last one of the orange bastards dead at the moment.

"Mekosh!" The next word brought their longswords forward in unison.

Before the word of attack was shouted something streaked by and sent a wave of heat over hobgoblins and humans alike. It struck one of the oxcarts nearby and the night was lit by a blinding burst of fire. Ashura shielded her face from the light and heat, back pressed firmly against the wall of the carriage and ears filled with the _woosh_ and roar of the explosion.

Quick as she could she blinked away the lights dancing before her eyes and faced the enemy once again. For a tense moment both parties glanced about uncertainly. Crackling filled the air and the fire was spreading quickly, other flames growing where burning arrows had struck. It wouldn't be long before their battlefield was an inferno and everyone knew it.

The stalemate was broken when the door of the carriage flew open, nearly knocking Garrick off the top of the steps. Eddard appeared through the brightly lit doorway, unarmored and dressed in his usual embroidery. He reached out and snatched the bard by the shoulder, ignoring the hobgoblins.

"Garrick! Get in here!" the young nobleman ordered. "Now!"

Garrick obliged and backed up into the carriage. At the same time the hobgoblins made their choice and charged. Eddard had not invited 'Nina' along with her partner, but to the Abyss if Ashura was going to stick around and fight these things alone. She jumped onto the carriage stoop, backing away from a charging female warrior. The hobgoblin's head was covered in tightly-tied braids that were decorated with clinking bones and gems. A parry and a kick managed to knock the she-goblin back at least a couple of steps, and that was enough for Ashura to fully back through the door and slam it shut in front of her.

There was a wooden latch and a steel bolt on the other side, and she tightened them both down just before the door began to shake from the hobgoblins slashing and slamming at the wood. Plush Calishite carpets under her boots and swords out, she faced the door and drew in a deep breath.

Behind her Eddard was frantically begging Garrick for something. It was hard to hear over the panicked wailing of Eddard's lady, who was curled up with her back against a stuffed bed. "You've got to lift the spell that's on the horses!" Eddard insisted. "We're doomed if we don't go now. The caravan's on bloody fire!"

There was a helpless look on Garrick's face. "I would if I could," he explained, "but the spell's Xan's doing."

"Well you know how calming spells work. There has to be something you can do!"

Garrick looked out the nearby window and Ashura's eyes followed. The horses were still alive, four of them lined up in their harnesses, though they were fidgeting and snorting. Perhaps they were strained to the limit of the calming spell or it was wearing off on its own _. Eddard must have had them harnessed when the attack started. Probably had his manservant do it._ There was no sign of the servant now. Maybe readying the carriage had cost him his life.

"Something…something…" Garrick thought aloud. He had dropped his crossbow and raised his rapier, and his eyes kept shifting from the horses up front to the shaking door in the back where the hobgoblins were battering. A few sword-slashes through the edge of the door had reduced the latch to splinters and the bolt was straining, some of the nails already popping out. "There is something," Garrick muttered. "No idea if it will work."

"Then bloody try!" Eddard ordered. Without waiting for more he yanked the front window open and climbed through the narrow gap, shouting as he went. "I'll drive. Just wake the damn horses up!"

"We're all going to die," the blonde woman in the corner muttered, hugging her chest and rocking back and forth. She wore a white silken gown and seemingly little else. "Lady save us! We're all going to die! Lady Firehair deliver us." Ashura glared at her with a mix of contempt and pity. Silly to be praying to Sune at a time like this. Ugly situations called for ugly gods. It had never been clear to Ashura if the girl was a prostitute or some noble debutante Eddard had taken out on a rustic 'adventure,' but either way she had likely not signed on for anything like this.

Garrick had pulled a small brass horn that she had seen him play from time to time from his belt. He took a deep breath and whispered something to the mouthpiece before aiming the instrument at the open front window. When he pressed his lips to the horn, puffed his cheeks up like a frog and blew there was a brief shimmer around the brass, then that shimmer flew forward. Somewhere outside and to the right of the horses came a thunderous _BOOM_ that smacked Ashura's face with a gust of wind and brought her hands to her ears.

The earsplitting burst of sound must have been meant to spook the horses out of their fugue. And it worked. _Very_ well.

With high-pitched cries of terror all four draft horses began to buck, the front two rising fully on their hind legs and threatening to throw the cart on its side. Then the carriage took off with a jump that threw the blonde woman out of her corner and slammed Ashura into a wall. Hooves relentlessly pounding against the earth, the horses flew while the coach helplessly careened along behind them. Over the scream of the turning wheels, the cries of the horses and the beat of the hoofs came the sound of a whip cracking as Eddard desperately tried to slow the animals. He screamed out commands as he sliced the air with the leather cord, but it seemed to do little good.

Another bump rattled the cart, and the force was enough to snap the bolt fully and throw the door open. By then Ashura had dropped one sword and managed to sheath the other so that she could hug a heavy dresser. The wood shook and rattled against her but it stood up straight for the moment.

The next bump was harder, and the floor leapt up beneath them, everything flying into the air. The blonde girl's head hit the ceiling with a crack and she came down limp as a rag on the floor. A few more minor bumps dragged her to the doorway. Her eyes fluttered and she started to come to and feel around just before another shake of the cart sent her tumbling through the doorway, out into the darkness.

A few breaths later the thump of the horseshoes against the ground became a clacking sound. _Are we on the road now?_ The sound continued, and after a time the carriage seemed to even slow a fraction. The room was wobbling less as well, as if they were straightening.

After a few more terrifying moments rumbling down the road Ashura dared a glance out the nearest window. Even with her helmet it was hard to discern much in the darkness. One thing she did notice though was an absence. There were no trees in sight; just a great gulf and a distant horizon out the window. A closer look gave her the impression that the road dropped off sharply too. _Great_. Was this the ridge that led down to Peldvale? That landmark had supposedly been close when they had made camp.

The whip was cracking and with a hoarse voice Eddard was shouting: "Whoa! Whoa!"

Perhaps they slowed a little more just before the arrows struck the wood of the carriage with a _thunk-thunk_ and Eddard's next 'Whoa!' became a gurgling cry. In the same instant one of the horses let out an undulating scream and the others ran and tugged at the carriage as if all the Hells were upon them. The injured horse tumbled and got dragged along, crying all the way, and the coach wobbled and rocked worse than it had before, careening from one pair of wheels to the other.

Two breaths later the whole thing pitched fully to the side and slid down the embankment. The fall slammed Ashura and Garrick face-first into the wall and then sent them flying up. All the world was a whirlwind of colliding wood around them, Ashura's head slamming against one wall or another again and again till the last lurch knocked her straight into darkness.

* * *

With a slap, a shout and a sting Ashura came to, lying face down in the dirt. There was a heavy weight on her legs and waist and the black of night had been replaced by the dull glow of predawn. With a little wriggling she managed to slip forward. She could move all her limbs. _Good._ With a scraping sound she climbed out from under the object, which she noticed was a cracked wooden dresser.

Through bleary eyes she looked up at the figure standing over her, and with a thick tongue she asked: "Wha…what?"

A husky female voice replied. "It's nothing dear. I asked you to wake up and you seem to have obliged."

"Who…"

"Not terribly important." The figure was resolving before her now. The woman had stepped back and leaned against the shattered ruin of the carriage, twiddling a throwing knife between her ring-covered fingers. She had an olive complexion and a windburnt face, and though she looked somewhat middle-aged her hair was a rich light brown and there was a chiseled, statuesque beauty to her features. She wore a very low-cut leather halter that bared her midriff, and her tanned shoulder sported a tattoo that resembled a scythe, the blade encircling a large dot. Her legs were clad in the sort of sturdy, shortened pants favored by laborers and sailors above finely made leather boots.

"The important thing," the woman went on, "is that we've taken your cargo and we're taking you as well. Don't fret about it: no harm will come to you so long as you behave. Corsair's code." Behind the woman and the wreckage stood several more figures in cloaks and leather armor, bristling with weapons. Bandits, much like the ones Ashura had been fighting for days. Garrick stood straight and still in front of them, his hands raised in the air and a sword pointing at his back.

Instinctively Ashura's hands shot to her swordbelt. She found nothing there.

The woman reached behind her and lifted the belt, along with the weapon attached. "Afraid you're going to have to part with this beauty," she noted. "Perhaps if you prove yourself worthy you can replace it with company steel later. Now," the woman asked as the bandits silently closed in, "are you going to come along gently?"

** End of Part Two **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, that is indeed Safana, following this story's tradition of introducing some characters in slightly different places and circumstances than usual. She was a pirate so I figured it wouldn't be a stretch for her to join a group of bandits, and she may have ulterior motives that we'll learn about later.


	20. Second Interlude - The Deathbringer's Lover

The pounding of rain against the lead-lined glass and the crash of thunder stirred Tamoko from her sleep. A storm had finally rolled in from the sea to clear the muggy air. On reflex she rolled to her side and slung an arm behind her. Her fingers searched the sheets for the comforting bulk of her lover, but found only cooling fabric. Rolling over fully she waited for another flash of lightning to brighten the room, but it only illuminated Cythandria's golden hair and pale back on the far side of the bed. The other woman mumbled something in her sleep and tugged at the covers before settling.

Tamoko pondered the sorceress for a moment. Inviting her into their bed had been a thrill, at first, but the notion was growing sour now. The first few nights the three had relished each other's company, but more and more Cythandria seemed only concerned with _his_ pleasure, and turned a cold and dismissive shoulder to Tamoko. Perhaps her perception was colored by jealousy, but she could not shake the feeling that Cythandria very much wanted to play the favorite and usurp her place at her the Deathbringer's side.

Now would be the perfect time to slit the sorceress' throat in her sleep. Would he even mind overmuch? The sight might even bring a laugh to the Deathbringer's lips. He could have a very cruel sense of humor, and often complimented her when she showed 'initiative.' But no, it was not her place to decide Cythandria's fate. Tamoko had told him herself that a god deserves a harem, and she would not go back on her word now and start dismantling it.

So instead Tamoko climbed from the silken sheets and wrapped a black robe about her before leaving the shared bedchamber. Besides the rain buffeting the roof the apartments were still and silent this late past middark, and there was no sign of anyone else awake as she walked the hall. On cool marble floor and rich carpets she padded quietly to the door of the master bedroom and carefully tried it.

Rieltar, the master of the tower, was away on business. Whenever he was gone his son would spend hours going over his father's papers and correspondence at the great mahogany desk in the master bedroom. He claimed he had to make sure that his father was not hiding or leaving out any key part of the plots they were both embroiled in. Tamoko suspected that her lover also simply liked to claim the lavish study whenever he could because it was the true throne atop the tower, a throne he intended to claim when the time was right.

She knew her lover well: Sarevok was there at the desk, illuminated by several tallow candles. His gruff, dark eyes gave her a brief glance before returning to the pile of correspondence spread out before him.

Carpet whispered beneath her feet as Tamoko crossed the room, passing by an unlit brazier. She waved a hand and spoke a word, and a fire leapt to life there, brightening the room a bit. When she reached him she laid a gentle hand upon his broad shoulder. Sarevok hadn't bothered to dress, and though he was less intimidating without his dark warpaint and spiked platemail he still cut an impressive form; broad and thickly muscled, and even without the mystical glow his eyes took on when he was clad in his bespelled armor there was a certain smolder to them. Every movement he made had the ease and precision of a great hunting cat, his head was shaved completely to bare the arcane tattoo Winksy had placed upon his forehead, and his dusky skin was crisscrossed with dozens of raised scars.

Her fingertips lightly traced the upraised skin of a scar that ran from his shoulder to the upper portion of his chest. Like most of the marks upon him she remembered when and where he had taken the wound. She was reminded of each battle, each victory, every time she felt the rough skin beneath her fingers as she caressed with desire or clawed and clung at him with pleasure.

"You worry overmuch about that web of schemes," Tamoko said. "Come back to bed. Rest will do you more good than eyestrain by candlelight."

Sarevok gave something between a snort and a chuckle, lips curling slightly. "Hm. Normally you would be right, but," he tapped two parchments on the desk before him, "the new letter that arrived tonight paints an unsettling picture. I cannot shake the feeling that the 'webs' may be unraveling."

Tamoko bent down and peered over his shoulder for a time before shaking her head. She spoke Chondathan and a smattering of Alzheod well enough, but she was still slow at piecing together the letters of this foreign land.

Catching on Sarevok placed a finger over one of the papers. It appeared to be a broadsheet. He pointed to a blurb of text near the bottom. "We've known for a while that Mulahey was dead and his operation shattered. But this story claims that the adventurers who killed him were celebrated on the first day of the Nashkel Spring Fair. Among some…colorful descriptions of the goings on at the fair it says that the 'heroes' of Nashkel were two young women named Imoen and Ashura, and an unnamed elf from Everska."

Tamoko's eyebrows rose. "Ashura? The girl who fled into the forest?"

He nodded. "You can't always believe what you read in broadsheets, but that's hardly a common name. And no coincidence. Remember that she was raised by the Harpers. I had hoped the spoiled little girl would be eaten by wolves out there, but she was not, and it seems she knows something of our plan and is pulling at the threads. "

Sarevok moved his finger to the other piece of parchment. "A letter, saying that the Black Talon courier Tranzig has not reported back to the company. He was Mulahey's only contact, and his name and location were known to the orc. I cannot shake the feeling that she's following the trail, and that next it will lead to Tazok or Davaeorn. Most likely Tazok."

Tamoko nodded. There was something left unsaid, something bothering him, and from the venom he put into the words 'little girl' and 'she' it was easy enough to make the guess. She knew that Sarevok would never admit it but Ghostwalker's prophesy had gotten to him. The orc's magic and spear had failed to pierce the Deathbringer's armor, but the honesty of his words had.

_ '…a Lady of Murder…' _

"I remember the brat from my time in Candlekeep," Sarevok added. "Both brats in fact. Imoen and Ashura were inseparable then, and they seem to still be."

"I can guess at the personality of one who was raised by a Harper. She must have annoyed you."

He snorted. "You would hardly know that from meeting her, actually. She was…hm…perhaps sixteen at the time so you could write it off to the age, but I don't know if I've ever met such a grumpy, headstrong little girl in my life. You could get her to glare at you or kick something over and stomp off with the slightest effort." He chuckled, eyes far away.

Sarevok would never admit it but a part of him seemed to have enjoyed his time masquerading as a scribe in Candlekeep. 'Just a means to an end,' he would gruffly say if you asked, but unraveling mysteries in quiet study surrounded by high-minded peers had calmed him, for a time.

"The other girl was the opposite," he added after a moment. "Playful and silly to the point of annoyance. She called me 'Kovey,' when she was being friendly. 'Young Scowly-Face' when she was not. Ulraunt was 'Old Scowly-Face.' I suppose the one thing the two girls had in common was that they were both wild and out of place in a citadel full of stuffy scribes." A frown grew on his face and he went silent for a time, staring into the flame of a nearby candle.

After the silence had hung over them long enough Tamoko broke it with a question. "Love? What is it?"

"Nothing," he muttered in a very unconvinced voice. "Just a strange thought that…" He shook his head and repeated: "Nothing." He pushed himself from the chair and stood.

"I have an augur prepared," Tamoko stated quietly, "to seek out Yaga-Shura. I could train it elsewhere this morning and search for the girl instead."

Sarevok stood there for a time, giving her suggestion serious thought. In the end he shook his head slightly. "A young fire giant grows more dangerous by the day. The bounties will suffice for the lesser children." Naked and sure of himself now, he strode towards the door. "You were right. I've much to do and many decisions to make, and tiring myself staring at papers will do no good." He did not turn around to check if she was following, simply left the master bedroom and turned towards his own quarters.

She had taken a few steps forward to follow but as her lover disappeared Tamoko paused beside the lapping flames of the brazier. After a moment's thought she turned and sat down, closer to the fire. The familiar searing warmth struck her face as the hypnotic flicker danced before her eyes.

In the monasteries and temples of The Way the old masters always stressed finding balance between the elements. That was the path to true wisdom, they said, but many of the young or more ambitious practitioners knew that finding strength in a single element was a quicker path to power.

Fire had always called to Tamoko. It had guided her in fact, along a wild path, to where she sat today, through a combination of the fires of war, augur flames, and funeral pyres. Seeking war-fires for a living as a mercenary, along with a general restlessness, had led her across strange lands, and eventually to the smoldering gaze of her love.

She still remembered the old teachings and secrets of The Way. If need be she could seek Istishia's wisdom in a bowl of water, knock a foe off his feet with Akadi's fury, or protect herself with the stony resoluteness of Grumbar, but her true strength would always lie in the flames of Kossuth.

Sarevok had told her to save her scrying spell for the target of their next great hunt, and she would. But there were other kinds of augurs available to her, and looking now into the heart of the flame Tamoko felt…no, _knew_ that this was the time to use one of her most potent.

Focusing on the crackling fire she took long, measured breaths. Gradually the dancing and swirling of the flame went to the periphery of her vision and faded altogether, till all she saw was the pure white-hot heart of it. It was a gateway, she saw, to a realm of unimaginable heat and unending potential energy. At the secret heart of all fire there was no time, no space. Infinite energy, infinite potential, all held in a finite little point of light that seared its mark into her mind's eye.

Communing with the flame she asked it a single question: what the future held for her love. Emptying herself of all thoughts she let the fire answer, let it burn the images into her mind.

When Tamoko came to with needles in her legs and bright spots before her eyes the rain had ceased its pounding on the window and the fire had died down. She shook her head and a worried frown appeared and deepened upon her face. Peering into the flames of prescience had drained her greatly and left her with much to ponder; so many jumbled, uncertain images. Most of them had been unpleasant, though. She could not deny that.

Wobbling and unsteady she forced herself to her feet and warily made her way back to the bedchamber. Sarevok lay on his side, chest against Cythandria's back and his arm draped over, but when Tamoko shrugged off her robe and pressed herself up against her love she felt his fingers sleepily twine with hers as he took her hand. She smiled in the darkness and squeezed a little, grateful for his solid presence against her body.

There had to be a way to keep him like this, whole and solid and warm and together with her. The visions had been muddled and uncertain but she could not shake the feeling that they had been visions of ruin, brought about by his hard-headed arrogance and pride. There had to be a way to change that. There had to be a way to guide him down a different path.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm probably breaking with Kara-Tur lore a bit but I like the idea of The Way being vaguely Taoist, with elemental priests. It's my explanation for why Tamoko uses a fire spell at the beginning of the game, at least.
> 
> Also you'd never know it in the game but Tamoko is supposed to be neutral evil. I kind of like the idea and am writing her that way. Evil people fall in love too you know.


	21. Wreckage

** Part Three – Taking It to the Enemy **

_ "On the plus side I was the only survivor. Made out like a gods-damned bandit."  _ –Kagain the Clanless, _Gold, Not Glory: A Memoire_

* * *

Kythorn 21, 1368

The dawn was especially cruel that morning. Its growing light illuminated a tableau of failure, and as he took it in Venkt could do little but shake his head. A field strewn with human and hobgoblin corpses ringed a smoldering circle of skeletal oxcarts, and nothing was stirring save crows and vultures getting their first samples of the dead. Teven was among them, along with the other mage and as far as Venkt could tell almost the entire raiding force save himself and two bedraggled hobgoblins. The two creatures stood beside him, weary and grimfaced, surveying the battlefield and waiting for his guidance.

Shaking his head one last time Venkt simply turned away and began to march towards the trees, passing between large, moss-covered rocks as the hobgoblins fell in behind him.

No treasure and no men to tote it; nothing but blood and ashes. Of course he could have gone searching through the ruins in hopes of finding some salvageable trinkets, but the most likely place to find treasure -the caravan master's carriage- had taken off hours ago. Not to mention that with each step forward the bandit-mage grew more certain that cutting his losses and getting far away from the Wood of Sharp Teeth was his best option.

Being one of the few spellcasters in the company supposedly gave Venkt a bit of protection, but he doubted that fact would save him from Tazok's rage when the ogre found out about this fiasco. Best case he'd be put to use as target practice for the initiates and hopefully given a quick death. Worst case (and more likely,) he'd be flayed alive, something he'd seen the ogre take great pleasure in before. He still remembered that elf girl's screams and Tazok's laughter vividly.

_ No _ , he had to ditch these hobgoblins when he got the chance and put the woods as far behind him as he could. Maybe he could go back to Luskan. His sister would have a grand time taunting him if he returned with his tail between his legs and nothing to show for his 'adventures,' but hey, it was better than getting your skin peeled off.

His thoughts were interrupted by the snap of a bowstring somewhere nearby. Venkt flinched and tried to duck, but what saved him was the violet barrier that flared around his body briefly and repelled the arrow. Such a handy spell, and thankfully it was still active. The mage's mud-stained yellow cloak billowed as he whirled around and searched for the archer. Somewhere in the trees to the north was his best guess.

A whistle followed a second arrow, which sailed by and struck one of the hobgoblins through the forehead. She went down instantly, limp and silent with shock. Venkt had seen where the arrow had flown from, but as he raised his fingers into the air he hesitated. The only offensive spell he had left required a clear target, and he couldn't even see a hint of movement in the brush.

The next arrow struck the second hobgoblin in the chest and sent him spinning and stumbling back. He gripped the shaft as blood welled up between his fingers. _Well, no need to find a way to ditch the hobgoblins now._

There had been a gleam on the arrowhead just as it launched from the between trees, and Venkt's eyes had managed to follow. _There!_ A hooded figure crouched against a maple trunk, his magical cloak matching the brown color of the bark. That was all Venkt needed for the spell. Rolling up his sleeves he prepared to reply to the arrows with a storm of magical bolts.

He was so intent on spotting the archer that he never noticed one of the large stones nearby rising up, pushing back a grey cloak and stalking towards him. By the time the hidden figure had yanked Venkt's hair back and flicked a dagger across his throat it was too late.

* * *

_ There,  _ Imoen thought with grim satisfaction as she watched the robed man clutch at his bleeding neck and cough his last coughs. _Finally got the second mage._ Once he shuddered and went still she stepped past his body and trudged through the clearing. Kivan had stepped into view up ahead, still holding his bow with an arrow knocked and ready, just in case. "I'm pretty sure that's all of them," Imoen stated.

"Aye, it is," the elf replied, though he still clenched his bow, making Imoen wonder for a moment if he was just being paranoid or if he saw _her_ as a possible threat.

Turning from the ranger, Imoen approached the ruined caravan, surveying the destruction in the growing light. She approached Branwen's body first and hovered there for a time before pushing the corpse onto its back and bending down to close the Norlander's empty green eyes. "'Spose this is what you wanted," she whispered. "'Tiss a fine day to die' and all that warrior talk. Gonna miss you though." _What was that prayer Branwen always used?_ " _A battle-death is a holy ending_ ," Imoen quoted, her throat growing raw.

She stood and walked towards the camp, and as she surveyed the rest of it the term _Nar Victory_ came to mind. The phrase had appeared several times in old histories Imoen had read back at the citadel, and when she had asked Phlydia what it meant the scribe had explained that it was a term for a battle that you survived but have little or nothing to show for it. A technical victory that tastes like ashes in your mouth. This was definitely one of those, complete with a lot of ashes.

The carts were gutted, blackened husks; a sooty circle in the middle of the field. Corpses lay everywhere, staining the dewy grass red, lightly strewn in the field but clustered close within the camp and at the gaps between carts. During the night Imoen had searched the destruction for signs of her friends as she prowled the battlefield and hunted bandits, but investigating it in the light of dawn was different.

One reassuring fact was that the carriage was gone. Ashura and Garrick had been guarding that, and maybe they had been inside when it took off. Imoen could at least hope.

Searching among the dead hobgoblins, human brigands and guards for familiar faces; now that was something. Somehow she managed not to vomit. Maybe she was too numb. Hard as she looked there seemed to be no sign of Garrick or Ashura's bodies, nor were the elves among the dead. There were quite a few caravaners though, mostly pin-cushioned with arrows from all those early volleys. Even then there were fewer familiar corpses than she had first feared. Maybe more guards and drovers had managed to flee in the chaos than she would have thought. _Heh_. And unlike her they probably had the good sense to keep running.

She frowned a bit at one of the familiar sights. Captain Kagain's winged helmet was poking out from under the bulky corpses of two hobs. At least the hearty fellow had taken down some of them with him. _Still. Poor sod, taking a dirtnap so-_

A muffled gasp came from under the pile of bloody goblin flesh, followed by a raspy cough. Imoen hopped back and drew her dagger, but after a longer look she was sure that the masked dwarven helmet was the only thing moving. "Uh…Kagain?" she asked.

There were three more coughs, and then with a voice even more raw than usual the mercenary-captain growled: "Would you get these damned things off me?"

Imoen struggled with the armored hobgoblins for a moment before Kivan stepped in and effortlessly pulled the bodies away. _He must be all muscle under those thick greens._ She had guessed at first that he was a wood elf, but his attitude and size made her wonder more and more if he was from one of the wilder elven tribes. They say the tribal elves grow a lot bigger and stronger than their civilized cousins.

Beneath the corpses the dwarf looked a mess. _No, worse than a mess. How in the Three Glooms, Four Mounts and Nine Hells is he even alive?_

The thick splinted-mail that the captain had worn was dented in a dozen places and outright torn away in a few, including his stomach, which was smeared with various shades of red and black and scarred badly. He had worn a steel gorget about his neck but it was battered, torn, and there was a lot of dried dark blood there as well. Despite all that the dwarf managed to sit up, rub his forehead and then wobble to his feet.

"I…I don't have any healing potions," Imoen stammered.

Kagain waved a hand and shook his head. "No need," he wheezed, then drew a deep breath. "Just getting my second wind."

Imoen crinkled an eyebrow. "Are you really okay?"

The dwarf gave a hearty nod. "Dwarven endurance." Under his long, salted beard he seemed to allow himself a tiny smile. It turned into a scowl when he looked about the burnt-out camp. "I guess we're beyond me asking you two for a situation report eh?"

Pursing her lips Imoen thought a moment. "The situation is complete and utter destruction, looks like."

"That I can see." Kagain walked over to one of the blackened carts and looked at it this way and that. "A lot of the cargo's probably salvageable. A fireball ain't dragon-fire at least." He gave the camp another look-about. "The young lord's carriage is gone too. Hopefully the boy escaped. Unfortunately that carriage is also where all the chests of gold and jewels got moved when we lost the supply wagons."

Shaking his head a bit the dwarf walked towards the gap where the carriage had stood. "I guess the next step is to see if we can track the coach and find Eddard. If anything's happened to him I'm in for a world of hurt. His dad made that real clear. Luckily the bandits would probably try to ransom him, and if we're real lucky he's just driving on to Baldur's Gate right now with his tail between his legs."

"I haven't seen A- uh…Nina or Garrick's bodies," Imoen blurted out. "Or the other two elves. They might still be alive somewhere."

"Well, maybe we'll see them," Kagain growled impatiently as the three of them stepped out into the field once more. It seemed pretty clear that he just didn't care, and was more intent on following the ruts made by the carriage wheels towards his gold.

Imoen clenched her teeth and pondered submitting her 'resignation' right then and there. The fact that wondering alone in the forest would probably be suicide gave her pause, but by Mask she was sick of taking orders from this callous asshole.

"Maybe you will," a solemn voice intoned.

Whirling and glancing around, Imoen saw nothing. "Xan?" she asked the open air.

"Indeed," the voice said again. "And I must admit I'm surprised to see that the cloak you borrowed is intact. You seemed so intent on suicide last night."

"Aye," another familiar, smiling voice added. The voices were coming from the same spot. "Speaking of the cloak…"

There was a red-white waver in the air and a nearby patch of tall flowers transformed into a stained purple cloak and robes next to a set of equally ragged traveler's clothes and leathers. Xan and Coran rose to their feet.

"That invisibility spell would have helped me escape a bit more-" Xan began but his words were cut off and turned into a grunt as Imoen slammed into him with a tight hug. "Hey now, careful please," he said after a moment.

Stepping back and smiling up into the moon elf's eyes she clasped his shoulders. "Yeah, you're fragile. I know," she teased. Turning from him she gave Coran a brief smile and reached up to unclasp the broad elven cloak and pull it from her shoulders. "And I 'spose I owe this back to you." She folded the magic garment up, handing it over. "I think it's relatively intact."

For once Coran's smile was weak and forced, weariness in his almond eyes. "I'm just glad you're intact," he said as he took it.

* * *

"Well sod it all," Kagain muttered in a defeated voice. He had been marching along hard and steady down the road, forcing Imoen to jog behind him and wonder how he managed such a pace with those stumpy legs. Truth be told the dwarf was only a little shorter than her, a head-and-a-half or so, but still…

Now Kagain's shoulders drooped and he looked deflated. They had found the wreckage of the horse-drawn cart, broken near in half by the plunge it had taken from the steep road above Peldvale. Nearby lay Eddard Silvershield, three arrows stuck in his chest and his eyes bulging wide open on a paper-white face.

"I can't ever show my face in the Gate again," Kagain muttered. "Lost the son of the richest man in the whole soding region. That's the end of my caravanning days in these parts. Hells, it might be the end of me if old Entar feels like heaping the blame at my feet. Told the boy I'd take a finger off his hussy every time he poked his head out during an attack, and it seemed to be working too. But he goes and gets himself killed trying to escape!" With a sigh the dwarf slammed the edge of his axe into a nearby piece of carriage and left it there. After that he turned and began rummaging through the wreck.

"So um…" Imoen ventured.

"First thing," Kagain muttered, "I'm going to see if any of the bottles in here are still intact. I need a bloody stiff drink." He fished through a cupboard but found only shattered glass and crockery. Shaking his head he muttered. "Damn, it's all been picked clean. Not just the wine and spirits, the blasted rugs and chests are gone too!"

Letting out the deepest sigh yet Kagain plopped down on the fallen dresser.

"Well, Garrick and Nina aren't here," Imoen pointed out. "They could still be alive."

Kagain looked at her with empty, bleary eyes and gave a shrug. Nearby Kivan was kneeling and studying the ground. Eventually he pointed to the south. "The bandits who picked this wreck clean went that way," he stated. "A large group but not near as large as the one last night, and some of them are weighted down with treasure. We can track them."

With a gentle shake of his head Coran turned towards the road. "Count me out," he said wearily. Kivan glared up at the other elf. "I've heard enough of the dying screams of companions," Coran went on, all the humor dried up from his voice.

"These bandits-" Kivan began with a hiss.

"The bandits who killed our comrades are all dead," Coran retorted. "And I've made no vows to Shevarash. Do as you wish, but I'll seek adventure elsewhere."

Kagain shrugged. "I could say something about your contract, but we all know we're beyond that. Do as you please."

Coran nodded and stiffly started towards the road.

Imoen wanted to try and call him back. She thought of ways to convince him that hunting the bandits would be another sort of adventure; that maybe they had captured Ashura and she was a damsel in distress worth rescuing. But she was just too weary and worn to even try. Hard enough to convince herself that her friends were alive out there somewhere.

Looking away from the departing elf she stared back at the thick band of woods to the south. _Where are you Ashura?_ She turned her head up to the grey sky as the first drop of rain struck her face, followed closely by another and another.

* * *

"You may not believe it," the bandit woman drawled, looking back over her shoulder, "but you two are quite lucky. You have a choice ahead of you. A grim choice, but a choice nonetheless." Warm rain fell between the leaves, just a steady drizzle now compared to the deluge they had trudged through earlier. Most of the bandits had hoods and raincloaks wrapped tight around them, but their apparent leader seemed oblivious to the weather, not minding her soaked leathers or dripping dark hair in the least.

Earlier Ashura had learned that the bandit's name was Safana when the woman gave a dramatically courteous introduction. She had not asked their names in return, assuming that they would go on in sullen silence and not seeming to care.

"You see," Safana went on, "it used to be that every soul captured from the caravans would instantly become a collared slave and get sent straight to the mines. Not a pleasant fate. But our little band's taken some…losses since then, and me and the boys got the idea that maybe we should press some of the caravan guards into service when we take a prize, the way we do it on the high seas when we take a ship. We need able-bodied _men_ ," she emphasized the word and gave Garrick a sly grin along with an appraising, full-bodied look, "and women with the right sort of mercenary temperament.

"Now, I won't coat it in honey overmuch," she continued in a voice that sounded awfully honeyed to Ashura. "Even if you prove worthy of joining us it'll still be a sort of slavery, and you'll be kept on a short leash until you've proven your loyalty. Still, it's a chance for eventual freedom and some small share of the loot if you carry your weight, which is far better than getting a brand seared into your ass and then choking to death on dust in some dark cave." A few more paces and she stopped on the forest path, the small company slowing as well. "But what do you say?" she asked, looking from Garrick to Ashura and back again. "No doubt you hold a grudge against us for taking your caravan?"

They had been trudging through the rain and winding forest paths for hours, the prisoners' hands bound securely behind their backs with rope. Their ankles were tied together a little more loosely, but still tight enough to impede them if they tried to run. The bandits had taken their weapons and jewelry, along with Ashura's helmet and metal armor, leaving her in her padded doublet, hosiery and boots. Both prisoners were soaked to the skin, and Ashura's loose hair clung to her face. Annoyed, she kept trying to blink it away. At least they had left the boots. If she got a chance to make a break for it maybe she could dodge their arrows. But those damn ropes…

After about two breaths Ashura shrugged. "They sure didn't pay well for all the hassle."

Safana smiled at her, and Garrick blanched and looked away. "We'll pay a bit better, if you take a big enough prize, if you pull your weight _and_ if you prove willing."

"Oh, I can prove myself," Ashura growled. She had never been good at bluffing (Imoen and the piles of copper she won at Archers could attest to that,) but she had always been able to glare the boys down when they tried to tease her or pull one over on her at the barracks of Candlekeep. It was easy enough to put the same stony face on now. She doubted any of these bandits were half as tough as Reevor, or Hells, even Hull and Fuller.

The bandit-woman chuckled. One of her companions spoke up, talking past Ashura. "What about you pretty boy?" he asked Garrick. "Just gonna' stare at your feet like a shy little maid?"

The boy didn't look up to meet the bandit's eyes, just started off, sullen and silent. _Damnit Garrick!_ He was going to get himself sent to those mines (or worse,) if he kept on like this.

Ashura cocked her head towards her companion. "He's a bit green," she admitted. "This was his first sell-sword job. He's tougher than he looks though. Good shot too, and has a talent for magic."

"And I take it he's good in the sack?" another bandit asked, teasing.

"Oh yeah," Ashura replied. "Real forceful and commanding and always finds a way on top. You'll love it."

The bandit scowled and one of his companions chuckled and boxed him on the arm.

"And who says you know anything about 'tough,' little girl?" the bandit who had taunted Garrick asked, stepping a bit closer to Ashura. He was half-a-head taller than her, kind of broad but his arms were thin and he looked a bit on the underfed side. His complexion was the same sort of olive shade as Safana's, and a few other features gave the impression that he was Calishite.

"You will," Ashura answered, glaring up into his eyes, "if you untie this rope. You can leave one hand bound if you like." She tried to keep her glare steady, though she was bracing herself in case he tried to deliver a blow. Thankfully the man just snorted.

"It'll be up to the boss to decide who qualifies, in any case," Safana noted, a wave of her hand guiding them back down the path and resuming the march. "Maybe the lovely, quiet lad is the one with spine, and the puffed-up little girl is all talk. We'll find out at the camp." Ashura gratefully began to trudge along. The woman hid it well, but she had a casual way of getting her band of men to do what she wanted. Good thing she didn't seem to want her prisoners damaged.

Hours later when the heavy rains returned they took shelter in the vine and moss-choked ruins of an old stone tower. The bandits enjoyed a late highbite while they waited out the storm, and Safana gave her prisoners a little taste of salt-dried venison washed down with gulps of watered wine. Everyone reclined against the stones, the murmur of gossip present between the bandits but barely audible over the drumming of the rain.

Taking advantage of the noise Ashura turned and put her mouth as close to Garrick's ear as she could. Through clenched teeth she whispered: "Garrick. You're an actor right?"

He started to open his mouth.

"No," Ashura went on, "just listen. You're an actor. And right now you need to act the part of a tough young mercenary with something to prove. Otherwise they're going to eat you alive and throw you into those mines they keep talking about." Beside her the bard was silent. "Just think of it that way," she whispered. "It's a part to play."

"Hey," one of the men across from them groaned, "no conspiring over there."

"Was just asking him which of you he thought was the cutest," Ashura said.

"The one with the forked beard, definitely," Garrick added, playing along.

The bearded man rolled his eyes and looked away while two of his companions chuckled.

"You know girlie," the Calishite bandit who had taunted Ashura earlier growled, rising to his feet and stalking towards her. "I don't think you quite understand the gravity of your situation." For a little extra emphasis he played with the clasp that secured his belt.

Ashura said nothing, instead narrowing her eyes and fixing a glare on the man.

"Now now Knott," Safana said in a silky voice. "I shouldn't need to repeat myself. It's for the boss to decide."

"Aww, Saf," the bandit complained with a leer at Ashura, "you never let us have any fun." Despite herself Ashura's stomach was tied up tight, muscles tense, and she found herself testing the rope at her wrists.

"You get plenty of fun, but this woman could be our future companion. So she's our guest, and under _our_ protection." With a pointed look at Ashura she added: "Of course if they act in a manner unbecoming a guest you can have all the fun you like."

Knott nodded and sat back down, meeting Ashura's glare for a time before turning away. The threat remained, hanging in the air, and Ashura figured it was a good time to say absolutely nothing.

* * *

Head bent low and arms tightly hugging her chest, Quenash carefully made her way along what she judged to be the northern road. The stones were hard, cold and slick, and raw pain ran through her bare feet each time she took a step. She still ached from the fall out of the carriage, but that pain had dulled over time at least, eclipsed by the stinging of her feet and her general misery.

But she had to keep moving. She just had to. Those killers who had set the camp afire were behind her somewhere, maybe on the hunt.

All around her tall oak trees loomed, skirted by dense little pines at the road's edge. More men like the ones last night could be lurking there, beneath the needles of every branch for all she knew. Maybe she was just walking right into more of them, a lost little lamb on the open road. But what else could she do? All she knew was that Baldur's Gate was somewhere north along the road. She had hated the city so, and had loved how Eddard had swept her away for an adventure in the countryside with promises of a manor home in Beregost. But now she just wanted the secure walls of the city around her again. That or Eddard's secure arms.

_ Poor Eddard _ . Maybe he was still alive, but somehow she knew the hope was vain.

There were farms too, past the forest and before the city. If she could just find a friendly homestead…

Her eyes were cast down at her feet, watching each step lest she trip or slip on a stone as she tried to shield her face from the constant downpour. Long ago her blonde hair had become a dark, tangled mess against her face and shoulders. For hours her arms had been wrapped tightly across her, hands gripping her biceps in a hopeless attempt to keep the chill out. The little white silk gown that was her only garment did nothing to keep the rain from her skin, and though it was at least a warm summer storm the long hours out in the elements had her sniffling. Hours earlier she had sobbed constantly as she put one foot ahead of the next, tears and rain all flowing together, but her eyes were now too raw for her to cry.

One sore foot in front of the other, watching them closely lest she stumble and fall. She never noticed the man who silently stepped in beside her and matched her stride; not until he reached over and placed his long green cloak upon her shoulders.

Quenash's blood froze in her veins. She twisted towards the stranger and let out a sharp cry. He was taller than her but not by much, elven, and there was a familiar green tattoo around his eyes. There had been a faint smile on his lips but it quickly faded.

"Y-you're…" Quenash stammered. "…o-one of the scouts? Right?" Voice and body both trembled.

The elf gave her a steady nod. "Aye." Carefully he reached over and smoothed the cloak out across her shoulders, covering her more securely.

"Are you…what are you…"

"I wasn't sure where I was going," he stated calmly, "but I'm guessing you're headed to Baldur's Gate. How about I escort you? I'm pretty sure the two of us can slip past the bandits easier than a caravan would."

A hint of a hopeful, tired smile grew on her face. "That…that would be nice." Next came tears, shimmering at the edges of her eyes. "Gods. I'm so lucky you found me."

Several wiseass comments about luck and 'getting lucky' bubbled up in Coran's mind, unbidden. Instead he frowned, and for once said nothing. This poor girl had been through enough.

Nina (who could very well be dead right now,) had been right: sometimes great peril just yields ruin. But maybe he could help this poor lost girl find her way to the Gate. It was the least he could do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the last we've seen of Coran. It just seemed in character for him to bail when things stopped being what he'd consider a fun adventure.
> 
> I think a lot of players miss it (I certainly did the first few times I played the game,) but in Baldur's Gate you can actually join the bandits and infiltrate their camp peacefully. Safana's little press-gang seemed like a more dramatic way of making that happen. And in the meantime Imeon's on the outside trying to find the camp, so we get the best (or worst…) of both worlds.


	22. Initiation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rough and somewhat morally dubious stuff ahead. What can I say, bandit camp isn't summer camp. I also feel obligated to note that a lot of the gory stuff here actually comes straight from the game.

_"Murder by any other name still feeds our lord." –Amelyssan the Blackhearted,_ Bhaalite Sermons

   


* * *

The smell of the bandit camp struck the prisoners well before they were led through low-hanging branches and caught sight of the huts. There was the familiar smell of latrine ditches of course, but even stronger was the sharp scent of tannin. Leatherworking seemed to be a primary occupation here, and much of the space between the huts was filled by row upon row of stretched animal hide.

There was another scent as well, pungent and familiar. It was the smell of blood, death and rot. The instant they entered the great clearing the prisoners spied the source of it, above the rows of hide. Splayed and hung between two tall posts was the body of a naked man, his hands and feet nailed to the wood. His skin was red and ragged, stripped away from his flesh either by torture, scavengers or some combination of the two. Four crows perched upon the corpse, pecking away at strips of black-red meat.

Beneath the displayed body sat something just as gruesome: a crude wooden wheelbarrow stained with blood and piled high with raw-red bones and skulls. Ashura guessed that these were the remains of people who had been nailed up until their bodies fell apart between the posts.

"That's what we do with those that try and run," Knott hissed, standing close by the prisoners and pointing. "Flogged with bullwhips till your skin's hanging off like rags, then nailed up there while you're still alive. As a warning. This fellow was still moaning when we left, and by then he'd been up for a good four days."

Garrick was looking very pale, his eyes shifting to anywhere but the display in front of him. Ashura's throat was bone-dry, lips set in a tight line, but she didn't want to give Knott the satisfaction of seeing her flinch or look away. "Doesn't seem very sanitary," she said, as even as she could manage. "Leaving rotting corpses just lying around."

Knott frowned. "Maybe we'll send you around to clean them up," he retorted.

"Fine by me," Ashura replied, turning to meet his gaze. "Somebody has to do the dirty work."

The frown on Knott's face deepened into a scowl and some of his companions chuckled. Safana sighed audibly and gestured for her men and their prisoners to follow, guiding them further into the clearing.

Based on Tranzig's description of how the bandits were always on the move Ashura had expected lots of tents; maybe something resembling a sprawling warcamp. Instead most of the structures seemed like broad-domed huts made of hide stretched over solid wooden flooring. A glance at the foundation of one of these huts gave her the impression that it was made from cannibalized wood from caravan wagons. It seemed like pulling up stakes and moving the camp would be a pain, though there was certainly enough labor available.

The camp bustled with morning activity as humans and hobgoblins pushed crude carts or carried stacks of wood, gear or loot between the buildings. A few gnolls stood tall above the rest of the crowd, fingering weapons and milling about. As the prisoners were marched through there was more and more activity, the bandits giving them lingering looks and murmuring to each other.

At the center of the camp stood a structure that dwarfed the rest: a massive dome of wood and hide six or seven times broader than the other huts and sitting high upon a raised wooden platform. The roughhewn foundation was much wider than the great hut, forming a sort of porch all around where barrels, boxes, chests and other assorted goods were stacked. Above that humanoid skeletons hung, crucified to the upper portion of the dome. Some were sun-bleached, others raw and bloody.

Doubtless that great dome with the gruesome decorations was the home of the Bandit King they had heard so much about; the palace where the ogre held court. For a moment Ashura thought they were being led to its steps, but instead they turned and passed through the flaps of a smaller building nearby. Only Safana followed her prisoners through, gesturing for her men to wait outside.

The ambient light that peeked through cracks in the walls was enough to see by, but Safan lit a glass lantern and hung it up just to make sure. The interior was a haphazard mix of living and storage space, with fur beddings laid out in various clumps between piles of boxes, kegs and unsorted piles of goods that probably came from caravan raids. Clumps of herbs, vegetables and fruits hung in nets from the support poles.

Once the room was well lit Safana turned to her prisoners and asked: "So, will you two behave? Knott can be a bit of an ass but what he said about the punishment for those who flee is true enough."

Ashura shrugged. "We're in the middle of the camp. Doesn't seem like we're going anywhere." Funny. Hadn't this been their destination all along? To find the bandit camp and the next clues about the iron crisis, for the Harpers and the Greycloak. Maybe if he was still alive Xan would find a way to help. And if he was dead she hoped he was watching from whatever outer plane stodgy elves go to when they die, and that he appreciated the effort. Maybe he'd even smile for once, looking down, if Ashura got a chance to get close to Tazok and plunge a blade into his heart.

"Glad you understand," the bandit woman said, brandishing a long dagger and deftly twirling it in her hand. She made a show of letting Ashura know that she was armed and ready before circling around her prisoner and slicing through the bindings; wrists, then ankles. While Ashura rubbed her sore arms free of pins and needles Safana slipped behind Garrick and freed him the same way, stepping back and watching her charges closely for a moment.

Next Safana walked over to a nearby wooden box and pushed the lid off. "Alright," she commanded, a sly grin creeping across her face, "now strip."

Garrick blanched and Ashura scowled and looked down at her boots. "Everything?" she asked.

A knowing chuckle sprung from the Safana's lips. "Everything. Those are magic boots aren't they?"

Ashura's nostrils flared and she glared daggers at the other woman. _Alright. Once I've plunged a blade into Tazok's heart I'm burning this entire camp to the ground and TAKING my boots back,_ she thought as she reluctantly bent down and pulled them off her feet. She shrugged out the rest of her clothing without much thought, eyes fixed on the little pile before her and determined to note where the boots went when Safana put them away.

Garick dithered a bit, especially when he got down to his smallclothes. "I said everything," Safana repeated with a hurry-it-up gesture. "I need to make sure you haven't slipped anything valuable or dangerous past us, and you need to change into the first piece of your new uniform. It's all part of the initiation. Just be glad we're doing this in private."

"I'm sure you say that to all the guys," Garrick quipped, relaxing a bit and peeling away his smallclothes. He wasn't nearly as thin and gangly as Ashura would have thought; lithe and wiry really, if a little slight of build. Silke had always called him 'little Garrick,' and Ashura found herself wondering if it was his build, his attitude or _another_ part of him that was now in clear view which had earned him the nickname. _Seems a bit little at least._

Next Safana inspected them, first searching Ashura briefly and then giving Garrick what seemed like a much more thorough examination. By the time she was finished his face was beet-red and he'd grown a bit less worthy of Silke's nickname. _Hm. Maybe not that little after all._

When Safana finally turned away and pulled some bundles of cloth out of a nearby basket Garrick looked extremely relieved. They were both given several strips of linen, and when one piece was belted around the waist and the others were tied to it they created an adequate loincloth. They were also handed a pair of woven bark sandals each and Ashura was given an extra cloth to tie across her chest.

"If you go to the mines those sandals and loincloths are the only possessions you'll be permitted," Safana explained. "But if you earn your place with us you'll be given clothes, armor and a cloak to go on top of these smallclothes. Earn our trust and you'll be given a sword and bow as well. Finally comes the best part: a little gold from the spoils, once you've truly proven yourself."

Once again Safana stepped close to Garrick, placing a gentle hand against his chest. "You still look like you're trying to wriggle out of your skin dear," she purred. "I sympathize, but you need to stick your chin up and be ready for anything if you're going to pass this test. And I want you to pass; I think you'll make excellent company."

For his part Garrick maintained his composure and nodded at her slightly, though both women smirked when his loincloth seemed to move a bit on its own. "Thanks, I guess."

"And remember," Ashura put in, "all these guys we've met passed the test. How hard can it be?" She refrained from saying what she really wanted to tell him. _'We've probably killed a dozen of these guys who passed the initiation. How hard can it be?'_ Best not to bring that up in front of Safana. For some reason the woman had been acting as their advocate so far.

Garrick shot Ashura a look. "How can you be so calm about this?" he asked.

Her response was a shrug.

"What if this test is for us to fight each other to see who's the toughest?" he added, fear and frustration in his voice. "Did you think of that?"

She hadn't, and she was taken aback for a moment, eyes growing wide. Her gaze shifted to Safana, who had walked to the flaps of the hut, her face cool and impassive. "Is he right?" Ashura asked. "Is that what this is leading up to?"

"Not for me to say," Safana replied with a sweet smile. She glanced outside briefly, not giving her prisoners time to grab anything before her attention returned to them.

Turning to Garrick, Ashura gave him a steady look. "Well, we'll deal with whatever comes. Worrying and speculating won't do any good."

Garrick was unconvinced.

"Maybe they'll just spank us with some paddles and make us stand on one leg for hours covered in honey," Ashura offered. In Candlekeep the gossip had always been that the Readers were initiated that way. The joke didn't mollify Garrick any. Ashura's face softened slightly and she added: "Look, if they really do force you to kill me I promise not to come back and haunt you. No hard feelings."

Garrick just shook his head. "I still don't see how you can be so calm."

Once again Ashura simply shrugged. Calm wasn't really the word. Truthfully she was seething with rage, and very eager to let loose. Every hint from the bandits suggested that this test involved some sort of combat, and she really wanted to just get to it and hit something. And if that something was Garrick? Well, it would be sad, but better him than her.

When Safana glanced outside again she announced that it was probably time to 'Put on our little show.' They were led out of the hut and over dewy grass towards a cleared out portion of the camp. A crowd had gathered, mostly humans in familiar, uniform leathers, along with clumps of hobs here and there. They formed a loose ring around a circle of well-stomped dirt that was surrounded by crude log barriers.

 _A training yard_ , Ashura recognized instantly. Little different from the one outside the barracks at Candlekeep. There were some whistles, claps and catcalls above the general murmurs as she and Garrick were marched through the crowd and past the barriers, then instructed to stand there on the worn dirt. The ground was soft and slightly squishy beneath their feet, moist from the recent rains and morning dew.

On the other side of the circle three miserable and familiar looking men stood apart from the bandits. They were lined up between armed and wary men and dressed in the same sorts of loincloths that Ashura and Garrick wore, hands still tied behind their backs. Two of them were drovers Ashura recognized from the caravan, and the third –a much older man- was Lord Silvershield's manservant. The two sets of prisoners shared a few brief, sullen looks.

Past the drovers stood a slightly raised platform where the apparent leaders among the bandits stood. After all the talk of 'the ogre' Ashura had expected to finally see the Bandit King, but the apparent master of this little ceremony was a human. The man was tall and broad enough to nearly be considered an ogre, standing well over seven feet tall and towering far above everyone else on the platform. His shoulders were even broader than Minsc's, his hair sandy grey, and his wide wrinkled face seemed to hold a constant, jolly smirk. Though the man wore no armor a massive two-handed warhammer was strapped to his back, and his sturdy coat was marked prominently with the grasping claw of the Blacktalon mercenary company.

The tall man gave Garrick and Ashura a brief, appraising look before letting out a mirthful chuckle. "An unpromising catch you brought us today, Safana," he boomed in a thick accent that Ashura couldn't quite place. "The boy's a string bean. The girl…" he shrugged. "A bit more promising I suppose." There was laughter from the audience until the big man gestured for them to be silent. Next he looked directly at Garrick and Ashura and gestured towards the other set of prisoners. "I'm sure your captors have explained it to you already, but you are still welcome to join the slaves and avoid this little test of ours. Not an easy life, but it's a guarantee that you won't die this day, or be forced to risk your life in battle for us. Just walk over to the slaves if you wish."

They stood in silence for a moment. "This is your last chance," the big man added. Once it was clear that Ashura and Garrick would remain silent he went on. "Very well then." He made a downward gesture with both hands. "On your knees," he commanded.

Garrick nodded and sank to the dirt. He was followed a breath later by Ashura, reluctant and glowering. The big bandit seemed pleased enough. "Good. Now bow your heads to your new lord: Taurgosz Khousann. You will obey my every word without thought or question. Understand?"

With their heads bowed they both nodded.

"Do you understand?" Taurgosz repeated, bellowing.

"Yes!" they shouted in unison.

"Yes what?"

Garrick caught on first, and Ashura repeated after him. "Yes my lord!"

Taurgosz beamed. "Good, good. Now rise. You've stated your loyalty, but that can only be tested with time. For now we test your skill at arms." He glanced to his side, towards men and women close by who wore the mark of the Black Talon on their coats. "Raemon will do the honors this morning."

A blonde man in scaled armor beneath his Black Talon tabard nodded and walked towards the ring, gathering two longswords from a nearby weapon-rack as he went. Once he reached the dirt he tossed the weapons at the feet of each prisoner.

When she bent down and lifted her sword Ashura was relieved to find that it was dull and weighted. A practice sword, much like the ones she had trained with alongside the Watchers. If Garrick's theory was true perhaps they would at least not be fighting to the death. She gave the new blade a few testing swings.

"The girl goes first," Taurgosz stated, and the blonde man nodded and drew the sword that hung at his hip. It gleamed in the morning light, razor-sharp. "Raemon here will put you through the paces," the bandit commander added. "Treat this like a true duel rather than a practice bout. If he can hit you with his sword it will open real wounds. If he decides that you're worthless he'll open your guts right here on the dirt."

Ashura nodded and shifted into a dueling stance, knees bent and muscles straining a bit with the unfamiliar weight of the longsword. _So that's how it is huh? A round in the training ring with real stakes._ She dared to smile a bit, and knots in her stomach that she hadn't noticed before seemed to loosen. This was familiar ground; practice matches and death-duels alike.

She could do this.

Raemon sensed her arrogance and gave a derisive little snort before launching his body and sword at her in a blur. She had expected a few probing strikes first, the way it usually went in the sparring ring, and the furious attacks had her momentarily flustered.

Three awkward little hops backwards, skidding in the dirt, then she managed to arrest his momentum with a few heavy slashes of her own. Bits of moist earth flew as the combatants circled, trading blows.

Ashura's swings felt frustratingly slow and clumsy. Two months of constant fighting with featherweight swords seemed to have honed her reflexes for those weapons alone. Still, she had trained with this sort of sword before. She just had to adjust and remember how to hammer instead of flicking the weapon.

Her heart lurched as she dodged a stab that came close to skewering her. Steel scraped and screamed as a second stab from Raemon was pushed aside by a parry and she managed to lean in, sliding her sword along his till the edge caught her opponent's hilt. In the brief moment that their blades locked Ashura twisted just a bit and brought her left fist across for a lightning-quick jab at Raemon's face.

The punch did little damage but seemed to jar the man enough for Ashura to knock her opponent's sword aside with the next slash and get under his guard, hammering in with a blow that caught Raemon on the chest and bent some his armored scales. Had her blade been sharpened she would have sliced into flesh.

Leaping back a few steps, Raemon crouched and held his sword up in a middle guard, a trickle of blood flowing from his bottom lip and down his chin. Ashura expected a furious curse and a flurry of slashes to follow, but the man's split lip turned up into a wide smile. "Yeah," the blonde man finally spoke up in a thick Iraeboran accent, "looks like she can fight."

Taurgosz gave an approving nod and a casual wave of his hand to Ashura. "Alright. Step back and let's see what this lad can do."

Backing away from the center of the little arena, Ashura gave Garrick a tight smile and a brief clasp on the shoulder. "You can do this," she whispered as they passed. "He's not any worse than those hobgoblins we fought." As she stepped out of the way she wondered if she was officially a bandit now. _Surely it can't be that simple._

Returning Ashura's grim smile, Garrick stepped forward. Ashura cringed when she saw how clumsily the young man handled his longsword. He was obviously strong enough to lift and wield it, but he was holding it all wrong: fully extended the way he always held his rapier. The tip of the blade kept drooping and wobbling.

There were some guffaws and jeers from the spectators, and even a couple of suggestions on how to hold the sword. Garrick gave them all a grin and a snort, humming something to himself and dancing from foot to foot. The low hum seemed to come to an understated crescendo, and Ashura thought she saw an almost imperceivable shimmer run across Garrick's body.

"Doesn't look like you can handle that steel bar lad," Raemon noted. "Not a promising _start_!" With that last word he lunged and swung his sword wide and quick in Garrick's direction. Effortlessly the bard hopped and twisted away from the slashing steel. More blows followed, but Garrick managed to bob and dance away from each, not even trying to parry.

 _Good_ . Ashura allowed herself a tense smile. She had seen this trick of Garrick's before on the battlefield: a little bit of magic that temporarily gave him the grace and agility of a hunting cat. Unencumbered by even his usual light leathers and clothing he moved even quicker than usual. _Maybe he should fight naked more often._

Still, he wasn't really fighting yet. "Dance all you like," the blonde mercenary taunted. "I'll outlast you and cut you to ribbons if this is all you can do."

"I'll outlast you," Garrick repeated, a bit out of breath already. "Funny. That's exactly what your mum said last night."

There were groans from the audience. "And I'm sure she succeeded, skilled whore that she is," Raemon replied as he lunged, his sword jabbing at empty space while Garrick circled him. "You could use some lessons in taunting."

Garrick grinned and ducked as the mercenary swirled, sword flying over the bard's head. "Alright, how about this one instead?" Garrick shouted, hopping up and backwards. "A bandit, a mercenary and an adventurer walk into a tavern. What does the barkeep say?" After a pause and another dip backwards to avoid a slash he finished, an unnatural gleam in his eyes. "'Hello Stedd. Should I fix you your usual?'"

There were a few more groans from the audience along with lots of blank looks from people who didn't get the joke. Except for Raemon that is, who suddenly stopped swinging his sword and snorted. The snort became a chuckle, which turned into a steady peel of laughter. Soon the bandit was bent over, laughing uncontrollably and near hysterical.

_And there's Garrick's other major trick. The laughing spell._

With a quick swipe of his practice sword Garrick managed to knock Raemon's legs out from under him, following through with a stab that ended with the tip of the blade at his opponent's throat. It took some time for the laughter to die away, and a bit more for Raemon to wipe aside the tears and get back to his feet, glaring at Garrick all the while.

"That was a damn dirty trick," the bandit breathlessly muttered.

A hearty laugh boomed from Taurgosz up on the stand. "The best kind of trick," the big man shouted. "I think this lad may fit in yet. Can always use another spellweaver."

With a reluctant nod Raemon brushed himself off and walked from the ring. In a moment the dull practice swords were taken from the two recruits and replaced with sharpened blades. Ashura and Garrick shared an uneasy look as they tested their new swords, lighter and deadlier. _Is the next test really what Garrick guessed?_

A few men in Black Talon uniforms were making their way towards the training yard, the crowd parting and giving them a great deal of space. They seemed to be hefting some sort of broad wooden object between them, and as more of the crowd stepped aside it became clear that they carried a sturdy wooden cage. The cage shifted and tilted constantly as it was jostled from inside by several furry creatures, the beasts a blur of constant motion as they clawed at the bars, shaking and snarling. It took a moment, but after seeing a pointed ear here, a pink belly there and one of the creature's faces, Ashura was certain she knew what they were.

 _Gibberlings. So that's how it is._ It was hard to tell with all the motion, but Ashura thought she counted five of the halfling-sized creatures as the cage was set down with a _thump_. The old bestiaries claimed that the strange furry animals are weakened by daylight and only fight effectively in large groups. Five of them wasn't exactly a horde, and though the day was cloudy and grey the cave-dwelling beasts would still be half-blind. Ashura gripped her sword tightly and got ready.

"You've proven you can play-fight," Taurgosz began, "but now you must prove that you can kill something real and deadly. Time to put some blood on the dirt; your own or the beasts." He paused a few moments, giving the crowd a little time to chatter and place bets. It was hard to tell with all the voices but Ashura was pretty sure they were being given good odds. There was also some disappointment that the show today would be gibberlings instead of xvarts or feral goblins.

Finally the bandit commander gave one of the men by the cage a nod and the wooden bars were lifted, the guards quickly backing away and jumping over the barriers. They were ignored by the writhing creatures anyway, and Ashura felt their beady little eyes fixed on her as they rushed out of the cage on forepaws and legs.

Instead of the bestial growls one would expect from the creatures' dog-like faces their voices were almost human, shouting out a string of nonsense words. "Kib jababa fek jab!" one of the gibberlings shrieked as it charged. The other four were fast on its heels, every eye and claw and tooth aimed at Ashura as they closed the distance with blinding speed.

 _Bloody hells!_ She twisted sideways and managed to skewer the first creature on her sword before the other four bodies collided with her, clawed fingers wrapping around her arms and legs as their jaws snapped and splattered her with slather. It was all she could do to twist away from the gnashing teeth as they tumbled to the earth in a pile.

Arms and legs flailing and pushing at the weight of the pressing creatures, Ashura felt claws rake against her. She managed to wrap her fingers around one of the beast's neck as they rolled in the dirt, pushing it back and squeezing as hard as she could.

A heartbeat later one of the creatures let out a pained shriek, shuddered and became dead weight against her sword arm. Throwing the furry body aside Ashura managed to ram her sword through the mouth of a gibberling that was wrapped around her leg. She pushed herself up from there, her world a flurry of fur and blood and steel. Moments later she was standing up straight, panting hard and dripping from a dozen gashes across her limbs. Nothing vital seemed to be leaking out at least. Garrick was prying his sword from a furry body, and none of the creatures seemed to be moving.

 _Killed by gibberlings. That would have been embarrassing._ As Ashura adjusted and retied her torn loincloth she recalled something else the bestiaries had mentioned: that the creatures invariably pick a single target to swarm and kill. If there had been more of them and Garrick hadn't been there…

Wiping her brow, Ashura looked up at Taurgosz and wondered if the test was finally over. He seemed to be smiling approvingly, at least. The bandit commander was about to speak when a loud, derisive "Ha!" boomed across the camp.

A chill seemed to run through the crowd and every human and hobgoblin in sight shifted nervously. A figure even taller and broader than Taurgosz stepped forward, the bandits parting and almost falling over each other to get out of his way. The newcomer was an ogre, well over nine feet tall and thick with rippling muscles that his leather armor and steel plates barely covered. There was something stiff and off about the way he carried himself, one shoulder a bit higher than the other, and there seemed to be a permanent, pained wince on his round face.

 _This has to be Tazok. The Bandit King_.

Two gnolls followed the towering figure as he walked towards the training ring, and one of the dog-men pushed a battered looking prisoner ahead with the butt of his halberd. The prisoner seemed to be an elf-blooded human, judging by a single pointed ear that peaked out from beneath his matted hair. His other ear was gone, and the rest of his unclad body was a mess of raw red flesh. He seemed barely capable of walking, each step an agonized stumble forward.

"Gibberlings huh?" Tazok growled as he surveyed the dead creatures splayed out on the dirt. "Hardly what I'd call a test, Tenhammer. The forest goblins made better sport. A shame we've run out of them. And even then the new blood you bring grows thinner and thinner."

Ashura took a step forward and hefted her longsword. "You want to test my fighting skill huh?" she asked, locking eyes with the ogre. There were gasps from the crowd.

Tazok let out another deep laugh. "The bitch has a little backbone. Refreshing." He gestured and one of the gnolls grabbed the injured prisoner by the shoulders and lifted him fully to his feet. "I had another test in mind. Fighting is one thing…" With another gesture and a nod from the gnoll the half-elf was flung into the ring where he fell to his hands and knees and let out a howl of pain. "…killing is another. Can't truly trust another man until he's killed for you, and I don't mean stabbing at nipping little beasts."

Pointing at the half-elf Tazok continued. "Meet Ender Sai. This wretch claimed to be a runaway thief from Baldur's Gate, but I know a Harper spy when I see one. A few days in my tent had him spilling all he knew, along with a great deal of blood. I've run out of uses for him and was going to have him flayed, but I figured you recruits might make better use of him. A little test to see if you have the balls for the kind of work we get up to."

Beyond the tense, pained breathing of the prisoner on the ground there was absolute silence for a moment. Garrick backed away, shuddering and looking at anything but the ragged man. "No balls huh?" Tazok asked with a scowl, stepping into the training ring himself and reaching for the greatsword at his back. "Well there's plenty of use for geldings in the…"

The ogre's voice trailed off when Ashura stomped forward, sword in the air. As she walked up to the wounded captive he looked at her through bleary eyes. "Is it time?" he asked in a raspy voice.

As she raised her sword and glancing at the prisoner, then at the ogre, a wild notion came over Ashura. Tazok the Bandit King was standing right there, within striking distance, and she had a sword in her hand. Branwen or Minsc would have charged him without hesitation, seizing the chance to end the iron crisis here and now and die a hero.

The eyes of the prisoner cleared a bit as he stared up at her. "Wa…wait." There was recognition there, though he looked a stranger to Ashura. "I know of you. You're Ash-"

His voice was cut off by her falling sword. It bit into the back of his neck with an eruption of blood, and she took some grim pride in the fact that he shuddered and went still almost instantly. A clean kill, at least. Still, she couldn't kid herself. No matter what Tazok had said about balls it seemed that she had just taken the coward's path.

Tazok stepped forward, looming close. "Ash huh?" He asked, a menacing scowl on his face.

Ashura shrugged. "That's my name."

"A name known to Harpers? Funny that."

She shrugged again. "Dunno why. Maybe they want to kill me? Lots of people do."

Tazok snorted. "Expect me to believe you're some sort of criminal worthy of the Harper's attention? Don't make me laugh, little girl."

She looked straight up into the ice chips the ogre had for eyes, gripping her sword tight. "You said you know Harper spies when you see them. What do you see?"

The punch arrived with dazzling speed and made bright spots burst before Ashura's eyes as she spun and fell face-first to the dirt. "I see a little girl who doesn't yet know her place," Tazok growled. His attention turned to Garrick briefly. "Shame we don't have a prisoner to test you with, boy." He looked over towards the line of slaves. "Maybe that old man? I doubt we'll get much work out of him before he collapses."

"Absolutely not," Taurgosz spoke up. "This was a poor haul as is. We can't afford to make it any poorer."

Tazok shrugged. "Have it your way." As Ashura tried to push up onto her hands and knees a swift kick from the ogre knocked her to the ground again, sprawled out. "As for you girl: be glad you've earned a little of my respect. Just a little." With that the Bandit King turned and marched out of the arena, flanked by his gnolls. A collective sigh of relief from the crowd seemed to follow.

And just like that Ashura and Garrick were bandits. Taurgosz gave an abbreviated speech of congratulations, the slaves were marched away and the two fresh recruits were led to a nearby hut. Inside a surprisingly friendly hobgoblin who seemed to serve as quartermaster gave them trousers and leathers to put on over the loincloths, along with green cloaks and comfortable moccasins.

As they bandaged Ashura's wounds and dressed, Safana leaned against the hut's central pole. "I seem to be saying this a lot," she addressed Ashura, "but you're very lucky. Not many survive an encounter like that with Tazok. You may want to rein in the attitude next time you see him, and do like the rest of us. Try to scuttle around like a mouse and hopefully go unseen."

Ashura gave the older woman a brief nod.

"Don't get me wrong," Safana purred, "that attitude of yours will help you with Tenhammer. He's a reasonable man, and likes a little fire from his underlings. Tazok is another matter though. A nasty piece of work. Best avoided."

"Tenhammer?" Ashura asked.

"That's Taurgosz's little nickname. They say it's because he once killed ten men with a single blow of his hammer. Complete bullshit of course."

Ashura just nodded numbly and looked into a nearby mirror, adjusting her cloak. _A bandit and a killer._ She wondered if her scalp would fetch a bounty from the Flaming Fist now.

   


* * *

"You need a magic hamster," Imoen noted.

Glancing up from the dirt, Kivan scowled. "I need a what?"

"A magic hamster. Our last ranger had one, and it helped him track some gnolls for like...four days."

The elf shook his head and stood. Torrential rains had turned many of the forest paths into wet-weather creeks and washed all traces of the bandits away. For the past day they had wandered through the woods without seeing a trace of human activity beyond ancient, empty ruins, and the trail had long gone cold. Ignoring Imoen's comments the ranger led them down the game trail they had been following, silently dodging branches that managed to smack the rest of the party in their faces as they passed.

Moments later Kivan came to an abrupt stop, a hand raised and calling for quiet. Once he was sure the rest would be silent he pointed ahead to the space between two pines. There on the bed of needles stood several strange statues: one of a roaring bear, others of human figures locked in poses of absolute terror. Ragged bits of clothing hung from the stone forms.

Without a word Kivan turned on his heels and beckoned for his companions to follow, retracing their steps back to the west. They had traveled for about a half hour before the ranger finally spoke. "That was a basilisk nest. I'm sure of it. We'd best avoid that part of the forest. I'm certain the bandits know to as well."

"I hope so," Imoen said. She hadn't recognized any of the statues, at least.

"You're holding onto a vain hope," Xan muttered, "if you think they're still alive."

"Well, it's mine to hold," Imoen barked back in a grumpy voice. She was about to add something when Kivan silenced them all once again. _Grr. What now?_

Kivan pointed to one of his ears but to Imoen the forest seemed silent. _Sometimes I forget that those big pointy ears aren't just for show._ Cautiously the elf led them forward, his bow out with an arrow knocked. Imoen followed his example and Kagain and Xan drew their weapons as well.

Eventually she began to hear the noise that had the ranger spooked: a steady, rhythmic scraping sound. As they drew upon a small forest clearing the source of the noise became clear as well. At the foot of a thick oak tree sat a woman, dressed in filthy, motley armor that seemed to be a mix of leathers and protective plates. On her head she wore a horned helmet, sandy blonde hair spilling out around her scarred, sweat-soaked face. In one hand she held a wooden stake, and in the other a knife that she was using to whittle away at the wood.

The woman seemed to notice that she was being watched almost instantly, and with swift, practiced grace she launched to her feet, dropping the stake and drawing a longsword instead. "Come to rob me?" she growled at the intruders, a scowl on her face. "Sorry to disappoint but I have no gold, and nothing to feed you but steel!"

Imoen stepped forward and waved a placating hand. "We're not bandits," she said. "Just travelers passing through."

The woman gave Imoen and the men behind her an appraising look, sword and dagger still pointed out. "Good," she finally said. "Then I challenge your best warrior to a duel."

"You uh…Wait. What?" Imoen stammered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Your actions have moved your alignment 10 point(s) towards evil.'
> 
> In the game joining the bandits usually involves sparring with Tazok himself, but I figured if every recruit had to go through that there wouldn't be many bandits. Thus Raemon and the gibberlings instead.


	23. Second Blood

_ "Rules of war are a fine enough notion, but watch how long they last once both sides have lost some friends and the blood runs hot."  _ –Cordell of the Golden Legion, _Conquests_

* * *

"A duel? Really?" Imoen asked in a bewildered tone. _Of all the crazy things some dirty hermit-woman might say when you bump into her in the woods…_

The stranger's glare was icy and even. "Yes really. A duel."

"Uh…did we accidently besmirch your honor or something? If so maybe we can make recompense and…"

"No," the woman interrupted humorlessly. "No honor to besmirch. I've just been traveling through these woods far too long without a good fight or a good meal." She bobbed her head in the direction of Imoen's companions. "So I figure: how about a friendly little match for food, and maybe a little coin. I wager that I could best any of these pathetic little men behind you in a fight. What are they? Your handmaidens?"

"Traveling companions, actually."

"Bah, just pathetic dead weight looks like." She pointed at Xan. "A frail little waif who'd probably be felled by a stiff breeze."

Then to Kivan. "A feral Shilmistan as likely to turn around and bite your hand as do any good in a real fight."

Finally she came to Kagain. "And a half-man over there who's too lazy to heft a shield and block a blow. Look how torn up his armor is. I bet he's good and shredded underneath too. How much did they leave of you after the fight half-man? Probably half a man with a quarter of a dick."

Kagain just chuckled, not riled up in the least.

"No elaborate insults for me?" Imoen asked in a hurt tone.

"I don't duel women," the stranger replied. "You'll have to be content to watch."

"Wagers are fun and all, but it don't look like you have much to bet," Kagain noted. "What are you gonna give us if you lose? That sword and dagger and that castoff hobgoblin armor? Doesn't look like it's worth much."

_ Hobgoblin armor? Hmm.  _ The woman did seem to be dressed in the same sort of outfit Imoen had often seen on Chill warriors. The horned helmet definitely looked of goblin make, and the armor had the same sort of haphazard stitching and mismatched bits; leather for the most part with a lacquered plate over one shoulder and steel guards at the forearms and shins. In addition the armor seemed a bit ill-fitting, even on the woman's obviously muscular frame.

The stranger snorted. "I'll offer better than that," she said with a sneer. "I'll offer my sword-arm as collateral. It doesn't matter, since none of you have a chance of touching me with a blade."

"Why would we want an arm?" Kagain asked. "We're not that hungry."

The woman rolled her eyes. "My service as a warrior. You're a bunch of armed people traipsing through dangerous woods. I'm sure you're hunting something."

It was hard to tell under the thick beard but Kagain seemed to be smiling. "Just wanted you to say it plain. Now that's an interesting offer indeed."

"Why are you treating this insanity like it's a foregone conclusion?" Xan asked, turning his nose up and away from the strange woman.

"Because I smell a good deal," Kagain replied. "They pop up in odd places sometimes." Turning to the woman he asked: "Now, by 'duel' I'm guessing you mean to first blood. Can't exactly fight you to the death and then collect your services afterwards. And I'm guessing you don't want to risk your life for some hardtack and…how much gold exactly?"

The woman nodded slightly. "Much as I love to turn little dwarf men into little dwarf corpses I didn't have a death-match in mind. And a sum of thirty gold should do."

Kagain inclined his head, and Imoen felt as if she could hear the scales creaking in there, weighing the deal. "Seems reasonable enough," the mercenary said after a beat.

"And a duel to second blood," the woman added.

"What's that mean?"

"The first combatant to inflict two bleeding wounds wins."

Kagain nodded. "Like best two out of three. That could work. Sure."

Xan shook his head in disbelief. "You are really going along with this?" he asked Kagain. "There are so many ways this could be a trick. And so many reasons that this is a terrible idea. We have no healing magic or potions. She could be a bandit scout sent to throw us off guard. Or-"

"Nah," Kagain dismissed all that with a shake of his head and a wave of his hand. "I know an honest deal when I see one. And a bargain."

The woman stomped forward. "Arrogant of you, little man."

Kagain shrugged. "Not going to goad me, if that's your game. And I'll agree to your terms. You get three bags from our stock of rations and thirty gold if you manage to slice me twice, and if I win you fight for us." He reached a hand out. "So what's your name? I'm Kagain, and I'd like to know the owner of that sword-arm."

The woman sheathed her dagger and gripped the dwarf's palm, forcing a wince out of him when she squeezed. "Shar-Teel," she said.

"Well a pleasure doing business with you, Shar-Teel."

Xan sighed. "If we must go through with this insanity at least let me insure that she stays true to the agreement."

"Huh?" Kagain asked the elf.

"A geas," Xan explained, "to insure that she follows her word."

Shar-Teel bristled briefly at that, then shrugged and spat. "Bah, lay on your silly spell if you must, elf. It will make no matter." She pointed the tip of her longsword in his direction. "I've signed my share of mercenary contracts sealed by geases. I'll know if you're casting anything else, so don't even try it."

Holding his hands up Xan inclined his head. "You have my word as a Greycloak. Nothing but a geas to secure our deal."

_ Well she certainly goes all in _ , Imoen noted, pondering the strange turn of events. _A duel. Well, those two hardheads seem eager enough._

As Xan approached the warrior-woman Kivan watched her cautiously, bow and arrow in hand, though he hadn't drawn the string back yet. It seemed he was intent on making sure this strange woman behaved as well, in his own way. Within striking distance of Shar-Teel and visibly uncomfortable, Xan waved his hands and briefly chanted. The air shimmered around his head as he added the last component of the spell: the command. "If Kagain gives you two bleeding injuries before you can likewise injure him you will become a loyal, fighting member of this group."

There was a matching ripple of energy in front of Shar-Teel's eyes as she nodded.

_ Oh, I see why Kagain jumped at the deal so quickly,  _ Imoen realized. Shar-Teel had never thought to stipulate how long she would serve them if she lost. Imoen's stomach turned at the uncomfortable notion that this woman might be selling herself into slavery on a wager for some salted beef and a coinpurse.

Still, this woman was bristling with confidence, and the notion that she might lose just hadn't seemed to occur to her. _Well, hopefully she'll just win and be on her way_. Then it would just be a matter of making sure that Kagain paid with his own damn money and his wounds didn't fester.

Shar-Teel stepped out from under the trees and over to a relatively clear patch of sodden leaves and undergrowth. "This spot should serve well enough," she announced. "Prepare yourself little man." With that she untied a pouch at her belt and dipped a finger in, coming away with a glob of dark purple warpaint that she began to apply to her face. First she drew a small diamond on her left cheek right beside a long scar that ran beneath her eye. In addition to that scar there was a smaller one across her short, sharply pointed chin. Once she was done with the first diamond she started painting over her right eye, tracing a larger diamond shape there that went from her forehead to her cheek and touched the bridge of her sharp, beak-like nose. It was a pattern Imoen recognized from a suit of cards.

For his part Kagain simply adjusted his masked helmet and made sure it was strapped tightly to his chin, stretching a bit before lifting his handaxe from its loop and hoisting his shield. "Nice makeup," he noted without mockery in his voice. "The Queen of Diamonds eh?"

"I plan to be a bit richer when this fight is through," Shar-Teel growled, her weapons slipping from their sheaths again in a blur. She slid into a dueling stance, loose and limber. Her longsword was in her left hand now and the wide-hilted dagger in her right. Xan backed away from the little patch of leaves they seemed to have picked for an arena and Kivan just held onto his bow and silently watched.

"Shall we get to it then?" Shar-Teel asked. "I'll make it quick, and I'll try not to make the scars too deep. I'm sure your flesh is very delicate."

Kagain chuckled and lightly tapped his axe against his battered shield, beginning to circle. "Aye," he said. "Let's."

That was all the invitation Shar-Teel needed. For the briefest moment she tensed and shifted from foot to foot, then with dazzling speed she dashed forward and pounced, her sword a blur as it feinted and then struck, dagger tucked behind her body.

Kagain was a study in contrast; still as stone and unflinching at the sudden speed and fury of his opponent. He only shifted at the last possible moment to catch and repel the woman's sword with his shield. There was a calm but quick economy of motion in the way that he sliced forward with his axe next, and it nearly bit into Shar-Teel's off-hand as she tried to bring her dagger in. The attack forcing her to twist aside and dance around a bit.

Another hack from Kagain made the warrior-woman dodge and circle even more, though she at least managed to make all the hopping back seem graceful. She replied to his axe with sword-blows of her own, and some were barely repelled by the edge of the dwarf's shield as he struggled to turn and keep up. One particularly fierce swipe of her sword forced a grunt out of Kagain and made him stagger back, splinters flying from his shield. Shar-Teel tried to take advantage, pushing in closer and kicking at her opponent's shins and ankles, trying to hook a foot behind and yank him down. The dwarf stayed stubbornly upright though it all. Attempts to batter him with pommel blows and jabbing elbows were shrugged off as well.

They tussled and turned like that for a moment, too close to use their blades decisively. Another shift and turn and slash locked Shar-Teel's longsword in against the underside of Kagain's axe. She tried to slip her dagger in past his shield, but he blocked and it stuck stubbornly into the wood. Before she could yank either weapon away Kagain broke the stalemate by rearing back and delivering a solid headbutt to his opponent's chest, using his armored mask as a weapon.

The blow seemed to drive the wind from Shar-Teel's lungs and sent her staggering back, arms briefly out and open. It was all the opening Kagain needed to slash out with his axe, the blade easily slicing through leather and opening a shallow gash across Shar-Teel's stomach just before she breathed in deeply and brought her guard back up.

As he took a couple of testing steps back Kagain noted: "First blood goes to me." He was panting, though nowhere near as breathless as his opponent seemed to be.

On another woman's face the look Shar-Teel gave next would almost be called a smile, but Imoen couldn't help but see a dangerous beast baring its teeth, and there was nothing but rage in the warrior-woman's eyes. With a furious roar Shar-Teel charged, leaping into the air as she closed the distance with the dwarf. A slash of her sword knocked his axe aside as she left the ground and passed over Kagain's shield, leading with a knee that was aimed at his face. The attack took Kagain by surprise and landed true, the steel of Shar-Teel's leg-guard slamming into Kagain's mask and knocking him backwards, off-balance and flailing. His back hit the ground with a thump and she landed on top, her dagger stabbing down in a flash.

Half-a-breath later Kagain pitched to the side and threw his opponent off, launching to his feet in the same motion. Shar-Teel rolled on the ground and pushed herself up to a standing and then dueling position just as quickly, and just like that they were facing off again. A stream of crimson seeped from a wound at Kagain's shoulder where the dagger had bit between the protective plates.

"I'm going to spill a lot more blood than that, little man!" Shar-Teel hissed between deep gasps for breath. Just as before Kagain watched her evenly, ignoring the taunts and the pain alike. Wordlessly he stepped forward and reengaged.

Soon the combatants were a blur of steel and leather, bodies turning and twisting as wood and blades met again and again. The warrior-woman moved too fast for Imoen to follow most of the time, and when Kagain chose to strike with axe or shield he was quick and efficient as well.

There was a pained grunt from Shar-Teel as they pressed close again and Kagain managed to bash her off-hand with the edge of his shield, giving himself room to push forward. He rushed by her, and as he passed Kagain delivered a backhanded blow with his axe, the blade biting into the lower quarter of Shar-Teel's leather tunic in a chop to her flank. The blow sent bits of leather and droplets of blood flying.

"You scum!" Shar-Teel shouted as she staggered forward, then whirled.

"And that's second-" Kagain began, but his words were cut off and turned to a " _Gurk!_ " when his opponent rammed her sword into his abdomen, through the torn gap in his armor. Imoen gasped in horror when she saw the metal splints on Kagain's back bend and bow slightly just before Shar-Teel pulled back and slipped her blade out. Almost the entire length of the sword was red and dripping.

_ Oh gods! She ran him through! _

Kagain's axe slipped from limp fingers and his hand pressed to his stomach. A little wobble and then he pitched forward and hit the leafy ground face-first.

"Fuck!" Imoen screamed, running to her companion's side. When she reached the dwarf and knelt down she found that he was deathly still. She tried to roll him onto his back but he was heavier than he looked. "Somebody help me!"

Xan cautiously stepped forward, eyes fixed on Shar-Teel, who stood above Imoen and the fallen dwarf, panting hard. The battle-fury was still burning in her eyes. Kivan had an arrow drawn and trained at her head now, the bowstring taut.

"What?" Shar-Teel snarled at the ranger when she noticed, irritated.

"You weren't supposed to kill him!" Imoen yelled. She and Xan had finally managing to roll the dwarf onto his back. Blood welled up in a torrent when they pried Kagain's clenched hand away from the wound and tried to press down hard with strips of linen.

"Gods, I don't think he's breathing!" Imoen shouted franticly.

Shar-Teel's eyes cleared a bit as she looked down at Kagain, seeming to just notice the state he was in. Her face tightened. "Well," she grumbled, "he should have done a better job protecting himself." Defiant as she sounded, the look she gave her blood-drenched sword was not unlike that of a sullen child caught with a stolen cookie.

"He had already won the duel," Imoen protested.

"Bah. Well, if it had been a deathmatch-"

"But it wasn't!"

"Alright, alright!" Shar-Teel snarled. "I won't ask for the thirty gold."

Shaking his head over the still dwarf Xan pushed himself to his feet and straightened his robes. "You certainly will not," the Greycloak stated coldly. "And you will do a great deal more than that. You owe us a grave debt."

"Hmph," was Shar-Teel's only reply, along with a scowl.

"You can't possibly want to take this murderer with us?" Kivan asked.

"As fodder for bandit arrows?" Xan replied. "Certainly."

"Like I'd-"" Shar-Teel began.

"You lost the duel," Xan sharply interrupted. "We had an agreement. And you're not capable of objecting now."

"I most certainly wo…wo…" A puzzled look came over the warrior-woman's face as she found herself unable to complete the word she was trying to say. "I most certainly will no…will…argh!" Her face twisted, struggling with the magical compulsion she had agreed to just a few minutes ago. "Bah. Very well!" She spat. "But if we meet any of these bandits you're talking about I'll show them that I'm far more than fodder."

Kivan shook his head. "She'll stab us in the back," he warned.

"She would love to, no doubt, but she can't," Xan pointed out. "She's a 'loyal member' of our group now. Not murdering us is implied in that statement."

"I don't like this one bit," Imoen interjected. "We came here looking for Ashura and Garrick's trail, _not_ strange hermit-women to make into our slaves."

Xan shook his head slightly. "She did it all herself. It was her full, hot-headed idea from start to finish. Don't be so dramatic."

"Yeah, it's okay little girl," Shar-Teel added, finally sheathing her weapons and sticking her nose high in the air. "I did agree to all this. Not to mention that as a 'loyal member' of your group I'm now entitled to an equal share of any loot right? If we do any of the pillaging that mercenary companies usually get up to that is."

"Quite presumptuous of you," Xan noted.

"Am I a 'member' of your little band or a slave?" Shar-Teel asked. "I don't think the geas mentioned the word 'slave.'"

Xan groaned. "I don't really care. If you want a little gold for being arrow-fodder go ahead I suppose."

A deep, choking gasp sounded between them, making everyone save Kivan flinch and step back. The gasp was quickly followed by a pained groan. Shuddering a bit, Kagain clutched at his bandaged stomach and rolled fully onto his back, Imoen and Xan once again rushing in and hovering over him. They placed their hands on the dwarf's shoulders as he took a few more deep, labored breaths.

"Not dead yet," Shar-Teel noted coldly. "Is he about to shit himself and pass?"

"No," Kagain managed after a moment, his breathing ragged but rhythmic and stable now. "He's not." That reply made Shar-Teel's eyes grow wide. When he finally caught his breath the dwarf growled up at Imoen and Xan. "Would you two gaping morons kindly tie these bandages on? And get me some water? Ale would be better, but I know we're out of it."

They quickly complied. Imoen was surprised by how little blood leaked through once more linen was tied on and how stable the dwarf seemed to be. Had she just imagined seeing him run through? "How are you still alive?" she asked him eventually. She just had to.

He shrugged a bit by way of response. "Dwarven endurance," was all he said.

Shar-Teel stood off a bit while they tended to Kagain, fingers on the hilt of her sword and eyes focused on the dwarf. Eventually he took notice and looked over at her. "You're worried I'm going to jump up and start swinging my axe at you right?" He wobbled to his feet and stretched a bit. "Don't."

"Thought I'd killed you," Shar-Teel stated, cold and even.

"My mistake for letting my guard down while you still had the battle-lust about you," Kagain replied. "No hard feelings. Business is business." He walked forward slowly, and added: "Was unconscious for a bit, but when I came to I heard you say something about an equal share of the loot." He shook his head. "That ain't gonna fly." The tall woman and the dwarf locked eyes. "Way I see it you owe us a bit of a debt. Especially to me."

Her nostrils flared and Shar-Teel gripped the hilt of her sword a bit tighter. "If you're thinking what I believe you are, little man..." Steel gleamed again as the sword slid partway out. Kivan's bow creaked.

There was a puzzled look on Kagain's face and he cocked his head. "What?" Then came a look of realization. "Oh!" He shook his head. "No, I'm thinking you owe us a few dead enemies before we cut you any sort of share. In exchange for stabbing me. No uh…" he grimaced and actually looked uncomfortably awkward for the first time Imoen could think of "…carnal stuff implied. Strictly talking 'bout the killing and looting business."

The warrior-woman gave the dwarf a slow nod.

"Now," Kagain went on, "I won't be a complete ass and have you work all the risk with no reward. But let's say…" He thought for a beat, "you put ten kills under your belt, then I'll call the debt repaid and you get an even share. Deal?"

"Ten dead bodies?" Shar-Teel grinned. "As long as they aren't as tough to put in the ground as you it sounds like a fair enough deal." There was a gleam in her eyes that may well have been respect. They both walked a pace forward and after a careful look at their respective weapons their hands clasped, then shook.

_ Well that was the strangest courtship I've ever seen _ , Imoen thought to herself.

"I take it you're fighting Tazok and his crew?" Shar-Teel asked mildly. "No other bandits in these parts."

The others nodded.

"Fair enough. I was trying to avoid them myself, and make my way to Iraebor, but that damn basilisk nest was in the way. But if you want me to kill bandits I'll kill bandits."

Before they broke the meager camp Shar-Teel had made and set off the warrior-woman insisted that Imoen and only Imoen tend to her wounds, especially the gash on her posterior. They stitched both cuts with a bit of string, then wrapped bandages around before finally begining to make their way through the forest one again.

Once they had figured on a good path to take that would skirt the basilisk nest and started trudging down the game trails towards the west Imoen slipped in beside her new companion and started talking. "So," the younger girl asked. "I just have to know. How exactly did you end up out here in the middle of the forest with nothing but your weapons and some hobgoblin armor?"

"None of your damn business, little girl," Shar-Teel replied. "That's how." Along with the terse answer she gave Imoen a gentle pat on the shoulder and a smile that almost seemed friendly. Or maybe the beast was baring her teeth once again.

"Uhm. Okay…" _What a strange woman._

* * *

With a satisfying crack the wood split in two and Ashura's axe bit the chopping-block below. Like most everything that sat in the shadow of Tazok's great war tent, the big round stump had a sinister aspect to it. There were dark ochre and black stains on the edge of the block. Perhaps it had simply once been used to slaughter wild game, but Ashura doubted that.

For today the block served a more benign purpose. Wiping sweat from her brow, Ashura lifted another hunk of poplar, set it on the stump and raised the axe above her head. She had a lot of firewood left to go through before eveningfeast. Her cumbersome cloak lay nearby, and earlier in the hot afternoon she had shed her thick leather tunic, working beneath the sun in sturdy woolen breeches, moccasins and her top-wrap. All the while she had wished that the bandit quartermaster had provided some sort of hat.

"Heh," a nearby voice chuckled after the wood split in two. "Imagining that's somebody's head I take it?"

"You read my mind," Ashura replied without looking up. An adjustment and two more chops, and then the wood was quartered. She recognized the man's voice. _Bloody Knott again_.

"My head?" the Calishite bandit guessed.

Ashura shrugged and kicked the firewood off the block and into a nearby pile. "Nah. You're pretty low on my kill-list. Close to the bottom."

Knott narrowed his eyes and bristled a bit at that.

"At the top of the list is this big guy in spiked armor. Then there's this necromancer who likes to paint his face. Next is-"

"Not exactly the proper reply, recruit," Knott interrupted, taking a step forward. Ashura finally turned and looked over at him, axe in hand and leaning against her shoulder. He ignored the weapon. "What you're supposed to say is 'No sir,' followed by a little salute. You may have joined our little band but you're still on the lowest rung, and you'd best start acting like it."

"Or what?" Ashura snapped. "Gonna threaten me with your belt-buckle again? Hells, how about you pull it off and whip it out right here?" She gave her axe a significant look. They shared a glare for a moment, Knott's lip twitching and his finger on the hilt of his sword.

"What's going on here?" a deep voice snarled. They looked over towards its source and their eyes both widened with surprise. A few paces away stood an imposing hobgoblin, equal parts tall and broad with a scarred, bearded face, a fine red cloak over his shoulders and a coat of scaledmail armor.

Knott's hand flew up to his forehead in a salute. "Ardenor, sir! I was just trying to explain the importance of military discipline to the new recruit."

Ardenor Crush rolled his eyes. "Looked more like a dick-waving contest to me. And for the record hers is bigger." He inclined his head towards the west side of the camp. "Clear out Knott."

The bandit shot Ashura a glare before stomping off. As he walked away the hobgoblin chief turned his attention to Ashura. "As for you, recruit. I didn't see a salute."

"Sorry sir," Ashura said, lifting her hand in a half-assed gesture.

Ardenor shook his head slightly. "Knott had a point. You seem to have a bit of an attitude."

"I thought bandits were supposed to have attitude, sir."

The hobgoblin's eyes narrowed. "Do not use that word. Got it? That's one of the outsider's words for us. 'Bandit,' 'outlaw,' 'brigand,' 'raider.' That's what _they_ say. Here we are a brotherhood in arms waging a campaign. We need to be able to rely on each other, back to back against our enemies."

"I'm your brother, huh?"

"You are, yes." There wasn't the slightest hint of humor in Ardenor's voice. "And the youngest member of our little family. Obey your elders, without question. There's no time for questions on the battlefield, and even the effort to neatly arrange all of our supplies is part of that battle."

"Knott seems like…"

"Someone inclined to abuse that sort of authority?" Ardenor guessed. "Aye. It's why he's not given much to begin with. You two are both under Safana's command, and she'll sort things out if there's a real problem. But I'd prefer _no_ real problems. No disharmony in my camp. Settle things with Knott, in a bedroll or the training ring, I don't care. Just make sure the next time I see you two you're not at each other's throats."

Ashura's eyes narrowed. "A bedroll?"

The hobgoblin shrugged. "Sometimes when there's tension between men and women that's the issue," he stated mater-of-factly. "I suppose you'd prefer the training yard. Just remember: you need to learn to fight _with_ people like Knott. Don't beat the tar out of him. Compete, learn and try to make some sort of bond. That's an order."

Ashura nodded. "Yes sir," she said with a slightly firmer salute. It seemed enough for Crush, who nodded and walked off.

According to camp gossip and what Ashura had seen of him Ardenor Crush was an interesting character. He had an easy, commanding presence and a shrewd way of assessing things that reminded her a bit of Captain Kagain. There were whispers that he was not a hobgoblin at all, but had once been a human who was magically reincarnated into hobgoblin form. Safana insisted that that was as much of a bullshit story as the one about Khosann killing ten men with a single hammer blow.

"Men just aren't comfortable with the notion of a hob who's smarter than them," Safana had pointed out.

Once all the firewood was chopped Ashura slipped her leather tunic back on and carried all that she could stack in her arms from the woodpile to the mess tent. The evening cookfires would be starting up soon. In name she and Garrick were bandits now, but in practice 'day laborers' would be a better description. Really it was little different from her life in Candlekeep, right down to laundering fresh linens and beating rugs.

Early on Garrick had gotten out of the more grueling physical work when some of the crew noticed his singing voice. Safana had placed a pilfered lute in his hands and set him up entertaining the troops who lounged near the mess tent, occasionally giving him more menial tasks when needed. Ashura wasn't sure if she should be jealous or pity him. The lad had a decent repertoire of songs, poems and tales, but every time she passed by he was wearing his voice out delivering an up-tempo version _The Dryad and the Gargoyle_. It seemed the bandits kept requesting that song over and over again.

It was the song he was singing at the moment in fact, perched on an oak bench and strumming through some of the last verses while a company of hobgoblins and a few humans laughed and clapped along. The moment Garrick finished Ashura handed him a wineskin and he drank deep before giving her a thankful nod.

"Your voice sounded a bit raw," Ashura said.

Another nod. "Yeah," Garrick whispered. "Credus kept requesting that damn song all afternoon. He's like a little kid." He turned his head when someone on his other side tapped his shoulder.

"Now now, bard," Safana purred. "No complaining. You've got it easy compared to your partner here."

Ashrua shrugged slightly. "I'd rather chop firewood than entertain Credus. And the work's been easy enough."

"We'll have to find you something more challenging then," Safana said with a mischievous grin, reclining next to Garrick. The bard offered her the wineskin and she gave him an appreciative nod before taking a sip. As silenced fell over them for a time Safana's eyes drifted to the great domed structure at the center of the camp. Ashura had noticed that a few times before; whenever she was idle Safana seemed to closely watch Tazok's tent.

The dome did certainly seem to draw the eye, ringed as it was with piles of chests and assorted treasure, along with the bloodstained skeletons of the ogre's former playthings. Perhaps Safana was simply being wary and watching for Tazok. Everyone great and small throughout the camp seemed terrified of the ogre, scurrying away whenever he appeared. Thankfully he seemed to spend most of his time sequestered in his tent.

Noticing that she was being watched, Safana looked over and gave Ashura a friendly little smile and a wink.

As the shadows grew longer the smell of bubbling stew drew more people to the rows of benches by the mess tent, the air lively with the song of crickets and tongues clucking with gossip. The name 'Tevan' seemed to be repeated more than anything. From what Ashura could gather he had been the leader of a large band that should have reported back to the camp by now. She had a feeling that she knew Tevan and his party's fate; a subject best avoided with her new companions.

Generally the humans kept to one half of the informal gathering area and the hobs kept to the other, though they mixed here and there in the spaces between. No gnolls took part in the meals, sticking to their own side of the camp. It seemed the dog-men weren't too big on cooking their food, and seeing some of the things they ate tended to turn a human's stomach. In addition to eating raw and sometimes humanoid prey the gnolls just weren't generally sociable, and the males seemed to barely even tolerate each other. Ashura had already seen one fight break out, two of the dog-men stirring up clouds of dust as they grappled in the dirt and bit at each other's necks until they were both bloody. It seemed the creatures were kept around and tolerated for their size and strength, but just barely.

Gradually Safana's little crew gathered about her, wooden stew-bowls and cups in hand. The gruel they ate was washed down with the heavily watered wine that seemed to be the common drink in the camp, but as twilight darkened to night and the bowls were put away the bandits brought out casks of rum. Once again Garrick was beset with requests, one jaunty tune following another as cups clinked and the liquor went down.

"Wish when I started here I'd known I could get outa the usual drudgery if'n I could play an instrument," Credus jokingly complained as Garrick strummed away. "I'd've shown off me musical talent then and there."

"Musical talent?" Safana asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Aye," Credus replied with a laugh, tilting his hips and letting out a long, drawn-out fart. "Quite the horn player aren't I?"

Safana rolled her eyes and preemptively fanned the air in front of her face. "Your only talent, it seems."

Although Ashura tried to take careful sips of the throat-scalding drink that kept filling her cup she soon found her vision swimming and her head bobbing a bit. At some point one of the bandits joined Garrick with a fiddle. Soon heads were swaying and raucous voices were drowning out Garrick's as the bandits sang along to some bawdy tune about a satyr's adventures, followed by an even louder song about drunken dwarves.

This was only their third night in the camp, but it seemed there was always a bit of a party going on in the evenings here, at least among the off-duty bandits. Before someone refilled her rum Ashura found her feet and turned away from the little gathering, making her way towards the darkened tents. There were a lot of chores she'd be put to early in the morning, and she had no desire to stumble through them with a hangover.

Garrick stood and excused himself as well, ignoring the jokes some of the men made about 'following yer girlfriend everywhere.' One of the other men shouted 'Go easy on him Ash!' and Credus made one more request for _The Dryad and the Gargoyle_ , which the bard also ignored.

As the voices faded and they found themselves alone and walking through relative darkness Garrick leaned in close. "I've been meaning to ask," he began in a low voice. "Ash? Is that really your name?"

She turned and gave him a long look before replying. "It's short for Ashura. Ashura Adrian of Candlekeep, if you have to know. Didn't mean to deceive you or anything."

Garrick gave her a puzzled look. "So why the alias?"

Ashura glanced around to make sure they were truly alone, then leaned in and whispered. "Because there's a bounty on my head. People have been trying to kill me ever since I left home, and I have no idea why."

"Home? Wait. Wow!" Garrick's face brightened. "You grew up in Candlekeep? In _the_ great library?"

She nodded and gave him a weak smile. "I'll tell you some of the stories I picked up there, if you like. Just please don't tell anyone who I am or where I'm from okay?"

"Your secret's safe with me." A thoughtful look crossed Garrick's face. "Hm. So are you some sort of long-lost princess or something?"

"Ha. That's exactly what Imoen thought when she found out about the bounties." Ashura shrugged. "Truth is I have no idea."

Garrick frowned and looked away.

"What…" Ashura began before she caught on. "Oh." She reached out and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "She's still alive Garrick. I know it."

"Really?" he asked, skeptical.

"I just know." It was the truth. Imoen was alive out there, somewhere. She simply knew it, the same way that she knew that her feet were on the ground and that her head was swimming from the rum.

"Someone's still alive huh?" a silky voice asked from the darkness. "And I'm guessing it's not Teven."

Ashura whirled and balled her fists. There in the shadow of a nearby hut stood Safana. The Calishite took a few steps forward, distant firelight gleaming off of her light brown hair. Both Garrick and Ashura stood in sullen silence for a while, waiting. "What?" Safana asked quietly. "Not going to tell me who you were talking about?"

Silence.

"Then I suppose I'll play the guessing game. One of our largest raiding parties led by a high ranking Talon hasn't reported back, you see. Last we heard from them they were near Peldvale, where my men found your wrecked wagon. Just a hunch but I'm going to guess that you were fleeing a battle with Teven and his crew, and you were probably happy to learn that the battle didn't end well for our side. So yes, your friend, who I'm guessing was part of your mercenary company, may still be alive. How did I do?"

When they didn't reply Safana stepped in closer, her voice pitched low, conspiratory. "As I keep saying, you two have been very lucky. Be glad that no one but little old me's put two and two together. The men tend to be somewhat forgiving when taking conscripts after a little scuffle, but if they knew that you two had helped wipe out an entire company of their companions…well…"

After a glare from Ashura the bandit-woman raised her hands in a placating gesture. "That's not a threat, mind you," she went on. "I just hope you appreciate that I'm not going to say a word."

"Why not?" Ashura asked suspiciously.

Safana leaned even closer. Her breath was sweet with the scent of orange peels, along with rum. "Because I need men who owe more loyalty to me than they do to Tazok and the rest. You two are fresh, and don't seem particularly eager to devote yourselves to our little army. And you owe me a great deal. Most of my men were caravan guards who joined up the same way, and they are quiet loyal to me."

"Men huh?" Ashura noted.

The Calishite's eyes twinkled as she reached out and traced a finger lazily across Garrick's chest. The young man tried to stand still and firm, but Ashura guessed that he was blushing like a maiden in the darkness. "Well," Safana cooed, pressing up against Garrick, "men can be so much fun to play with." With her head against the bard's chest she turned and locked eyes with Ashura. "You seem to be immune to my charms. We can still work well together though, I think. Favors for favors."

Ashura tilted her head forward, half a nod.

Her body completely pressed to Garrick now, Safana turned her eyes up to his, lips by his chin. "And I'm sure you'll appreciate my favors as well."

"Uh…" the lad stammered.

"We'll talk again later." With that Safana disengaged from their conspiratory little huddle, turned and slowly strutted off. Garrick's eyes were fixed on her until she vanished behind a tent.

"What a strange woman," he finally managed, throat a bit dry.

"She seems simple enough to me," Ashura noted.

Garrick gave her a curious look.

"What? Silke never leaned in against you like that and told you a secret in a husky whisper? Say, just before she asked you to do her a big favor like 'go search of mercenaries' or 'help me with these bags'?"

Garrick shook his head. "Not like that." There was a thoughtful look on his face then. "Well, not quite like that."

"Try not to do all your thinking with Little Garrick, okay? It's obviously what she wants."

"What? I'm not…well…" As he stammered Garrick glanced down and then noticeably shifted so that the front of his pants was facing away from her.

Shaking her head Ashura gently boxed her companion on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it." Perhaps it was the rum, but at the moment she had a sudden urge to take the poor flustered lad aside somewhere and see if she could work the fluster out of him, maybe beat Safana to the punch. But no, she had made a promise to Imoen. Besides, she might just end up flustering the poor guy some more. Seemed like something they'd both regret. In silence the two made their way to the tent Safana and her men had claimed, going to their bedrolls side by side.

That night Ashura dreamed that the camp was on fire, walls of flame bright and high and billowing in every direction. She stood in the eye of the firestorm, covered in soot and blood and sweat, two swords raised high in the air. Somewhere in the flames she kept catching glimpses of the leering skull with its halo of tears, and from that strange flickering symbol an endless peal of laughter emanated.

She laughed right back into the flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was originally sketching this story out in my head Kagain was going to die in the duel with Shar-Teel, but 'win' on a technicality. Whenever I recruit Shar-Teel in the game I tend to instantly replace the warrior who defeats her with her, so the other warrior dying seemed like a good explanation for that sort of party-shifting.
> 
> When I finally got around to writing the passage Kagain had sort of become a combination of Zaeed Massani from Mass Effect and Wolverine, and I realized he was just too tough to go out that way.


	24. New Allies and Old Tricks

_ "The enemy of my enemy is probably also my enemy."  _ –Common drow saying

* * *

Awakening with a gasp and a start, Imoen found herself sitting up and shaking her head frantically from side to side, as if she were trying to knock the fragments of the dream out. And what an odd dream it had been! So full of vivid images, though looking back she had no idea what it had been about. Just fire and blood; demons and billowing wings.

And laughing skulls.

Crawling past Shar-Teel's sprawled out form and out of the cramped tent she found that predawn light was already peeking through the trees, and that the men seemed to be up already. The damn elves were always up and about, both when she went to sleep and when she awakened. It was a bit creepy; the way they didn't ever lay down and close their eyes, and would instead just sit for hours on end, looking off at nothing.

Xan and Kivan sat by the cookfire, sipping herbal tea and stirring the ashes. They gave Imoen silent nods as she passed by. Silent and standoffish as always, and they seemed to have grown worse over the past few days. Kivan did little but glower and glare, always searching for something to put an arrow through, and Xan had grown even more quiet and morose. _Bunch of stick-in-the-muds!_ She was beginning to miss Coran, who seemed to be the most 'human' elf she had ever met.

Fishing a small spade from one of the bags, Imoen turned towards the forest that surrounded them and started for where the brush seemed thickest. She gasped in surprise when a hand fell gently onto her shoulder.

"You appear troubled," Kivan stated in his usual gravely tone.

_ Well that's creepy too _ ! It's like he had just read her mind and decided to speak up for once just to show her up that he could.

Turning to the elf, Imoen nodded. "I spose I am," she said. "Had some weird dreams last night."

"Ah, I understand," Kivan replied with a nod, surprising Imoen once again.

What did he know of dreams?

"Many a night I've dreaded the hours I must sit in reverie," he said in answer to her silent question. "Sometimes sweet memories of Deheriana come to me in that quiet time, but more often my mind wanders to her final…unpleasant moments. And you humans have even less control over the course of your dreams than we _tel'quess_."

"True. I'm really worried…" She looked away, then made a face when Kivan gripped her shoulder a little tighter. He was trying to be comforting, she knew, but it was hard not to find the big dour guy intimidating even at the best of times.

"You said that you knew she was still alive?" He asked. "Felt it in your bones."

"Ya. Still do."

"Then hold onto that. I can never undo what Tazok did to my Deheriana, but you still have hope."

"But she's _with_ Tazok…"

Kivan shook his head slightly. "What happened to my beloved and I was years ago, when the ogre led a small band of raiders. Now that he is a sort of king he has responsibilities as well. A slave is a valuable commodity, and though it may be an unpleasant fate for your friends, slaves can be freed."

"Bitter comfort indeed," Imoen said with a frown.

"Aye, but better than no comfort at all. We'll find them."

"Thanks." Imoen forced a smile and turned back towards the forest. When the ranger walked a few steps with her she coughed and pointed at the spade in her hand. "Uhm…I appreciate the offer of protection, but you might not want to follow where I'm going." When he gave her a blank look she added. "I was gonna…uh…"

Luckily realization appeared on Kivan's face before she had to completely spell it out. "Oh," he said, a bit embarrassed. "I apologize." He turned around and returned to the cookfire.

_ A bit thickheaded _ , Imoen thought as she pushed her way through the bushes. _Maybe elves don't poop. It'd be just like them not to have to._

Once she had finished her business in the bushes Imoen circled around the camp and made her way downhill. They had pitched their tents above a nice little pond, half-covered in lily pads and thick with the song of bullfrogs that evening. The water had to be boiled before they dared drink it, but it seemed a suitable enough place for Imoen to splash her face. Probably a lot better than the cold mountain streams she had been forced to wash in on Minsc's little quest.

Apparently someone else had the same idea as she, as she heard a little trickling and splashing when she approached and pushed her way past tall grass and into the clearing. " _Ahem_ ," Imoen coughed to announce her presence, noting a pile of torn scale armor and a winged helmet near the shore. "Is the pond taken?"

"Just washing my beard," Kagain's low, whispering voice responded. The old dwarf was kneeling at the water's edge, stripped to the waist and ringing his long beard out. His close-cropped hair was also damp, as was his barrel-shaped upper body.

Imoen accepted the invitation and walked down the sandy shore, kneeling and dipping cupped hands into the water before splashing her face. She looked over at Kagain. "Bet you had a lot of dirt and blood to wash out of that thing," she noted.

"A lot of dirt and blood everywhere," he shrugged. "Wish we had some soap."

"Ha!" Imoen moistened her forearms and rubbed them a bit. "Would think you'd be used to roughing it."

"Used to, maybe, but that don't mean I won't grab at every luxury available. Really need some soap, and some ale. If we do stumble on any bandit camps I'm taking the first share of either."

As the dwarf talked he turned a bit towards her. For some reason Imoen had expected a beer-gut, but though there was a certain roundness to Kagain's overall build his stomach was flat and more thick with muscle than fat. His body hair was broken up by just a bit of raised white scarring there, old wounds it looked like. There were a few more prominent scars on his shoulders and arms.

"You're staring," Kagain stated flatly.

"Yeah," Imoen admitted, unabashed. She pointed. "There's barely even a scar on your stomach, and I saw you get stabbed there not two days ago."

"Dwarven resilience," Kagain replied, same as before.

Imoen shook her head. "You keep saying that like it's magic. But there's something more to it." She chuckled. "Yer gonna have to show me your beauty secret. I've already collected a couple of ugly scars in just a few months of adventuring."

The dwarf's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Not gonna show you a damn thing, beauty secrets or otherwise. You'd best not think too much on it."

Waving a placating hand Imoen squeaked: "Okay okay, sorry. I won't pry."

Kagain pointed towards the pile of his things. "Can you hand me that cloth over there?"

"Sure," Imoen said, rushing to help. She never thought she'd see Kagain get touchy like that.

"Ha," a nearby voice barked. "The little man's pretty modest. Doesn't want us to see just how little he really is, I bet." Shar-Teel sauntered towards the pond, dropping her helmet and pulling the straps of her mismatched armor loose.

"From all yer talk," Kagain said as he rubbed his chest dry, "you seem pretty preoccupied with male parts, mine in particular. People might get ideas."

Shar-Teel snorted and continued peeling off her armor, revealing that she wore nothing beneath the leather and padding before she stomped into the water with a heedless lack of modesty that reminded Imoen of Ashura. Waves crashed lightly against the shore.

"It's cute how you keep trying to bait me," Kagain added as he gathered his kit.

"Bah! Nothing about me is cute, little man!"

Seeing Shar-Teel in this state, Imoen had to agree. Beneath the armor the woman was all taut muscle, high, flat breasts, and scars. There was a certain chiseled beauty to her, but nothing particularly cute. _No sir_. "Looks like he has a talent for baiting you," Imoen pointed out.

With a chuckle Kagain walked off.

"Hmph," Shar-Teel growled, splashing water over her head. "No talent there. Just another male pig. Smaller and rounder than most."

"Nah, he's not. If he was he'd have gotten all flustered by your insults and lost the duel."

Shar-Teel let out an exasperated sigh. "Can't we wash in silence? I have about as much patience for 'girl talk' as I do for weak, brainless men."

"Aww, but I wanna get to know my newest companion a little better. You remind me a bit of my friend who we're trying to rescue. Of course instead of snarling and insulting people all the time she tends to just let her swords do the talking."

"If she needs rescuing then she's weak, and nothing like me," Shar-Teel snorted.

"Ha. Try telling her that. She might just challenge you to a duel."

"Like I told you, I don't duel women."

"Why don't you?"

Shar-Teel smirked and some of the gruff veneer came off. "For exactly the reason that you probably think. Men are easy to goad into making mistakes. It's a fact that's helped me make a great deal of coin as a sellsword. Until now. Blasted dwarf." With that she stood suddenly and sent water sluicing and flying everywhere.

Wading to the shore, Shar-Teel tossed her damp hair back and shook some of the water off. Imoen couldn't help but be reminded of a wolf shaking itself dry, though Shar-Teel seemed grateful when she was offered a cloth. Next the warrior-woman dressed just as quickly and unceremoniously as she had undressed.

Leaving the pond behind them, the two women joined the others in striking the camp. By Kivan's reckoning they would finish traveling the breadth of the Wood today, with little to show for it. They had been attacked a few times on their journey by feral forest goblins, and had one brief encounter with giant spiders, but if there were bandits left in the woods there had been no sign.

"This search is hopeless," Xan whined as the group set out along a narrow game-trail.

"They'll show," Kivan growled. "One way or another." He was proven right an hour later, when the sounds of a distant battle reached their ears.

* * *

Tongues had been wagging before dawn that Tazok and his most trusted men would be leaving the camp, but it wasn't until noon that they finally formed up. From there it took another hour for them to get underway. Before that the slave pens were emptied and the captives where marched into the clearing, lashed together in teams of six and hauling crude wooden carts. It looked like a mockery of the caravans that the men and women had been taken from in the first place.

From what Ashura could gather the carts and the human cargo were bound for 'the mines' that the bandits often talked of in low whispers. She also got the impression that compared to past hauls this one was pretty abysmal; just twenty slaves gathered over the past half-season, all told. The bandits seemed to mostly blame their bad fortune on the fact that caravans had stopped daring the roads near the Sharp Teeth, but here and there they whispered of the heavy losses they had taken recently. Ashura couldn't help but take a little secret pride in that.

Tazok's crude little caravan contained two additional carts, pulled by worgs of all things. The big, sentient wolves didn't look particularly pleased with the job, heads turning constantly as they let out grumpy snarls at their hobgoblin minders. Supposedly the camp had once had teams of mules and horses, but the damn gnolls had slipped them off and eaten them one by one.

At the head of the column Tazok wore a similar expression to that of the worgs. The ogre's face was clenched and lined with pain and frustration, and his eyes seemed to constantly search for something to lash out at. The men kept as wide a berth from him as they could, and once the carts creaked and began to roll down the forest path a great sigh of relief seemed to rise from the entire camp.

Ashura had no idea where 'the mines' were actually located, and from what little she could pick up it seemed to be a secret. It was clear that they were pretty far away, and she got a better idea when Safana leaned in close and whispered to her. "Tazok will be gone for at least two tendays, perhaps more," the woman said. "Seems the cat's finally away. Would you be a dear and meet me on the other side of that clearing past the big fir tree in two hours time?" Without waiting for an answer Safana slipped away.

After some drudge-work rearranging crates Ashura excused herself, invoking her superior's name and finding the meeting spot at the allotted time. Garrick was already there, beneath the fir tree. He gave Ashura a relieved smile when she approached, she clasped his shoulder, and together they watched the forest for a time.

Safana joined them a few minutes later, fashionably late and seeming to appear out of thin air. With her usual sultry grin and eyes fixed on Garrick the Calishite woman walked up and took the bard by the hand, guiding him over towards a large weatherworn boulder and gesturing for Ashura to follow as well.

"What's all this…" Garrick began, voice trailing off when Safana shushed him with a finger.

"Speak softly," she advised, turning Garrick so that his back was against the stone.

_ Like clay in her hands _ , Ashura thought disapprovingly.

"And stand just like that," Safana went on. "Good. Lean against the rock just a bit more." Next she placed a hand on Ashura's shoulder. "Now you…follow my lead." With that the bandit-woman gracefully slipped down, knees on the grass in front of Garrick, the insistent pressure of her hand on Ashura's shoulder guiding her down as well.

Ashura's eyes went wide in disbelief and she slid reluctantly to one knee, a bit tense. "Uh, what the hell-"

"…are we doing?" Safana whispered. "Having a nice quiet, private conversation. But if anyone happens to come by and see us in this position they'll get other ideas."

Garrick looked like he was about to die of embarrassment. "Is this really necessary?" he whispered.

Putting a hand over her mouth and chuckling, Ashura eased down onto her knees. "No," she observed, "but she's having a grand time teasing you."

"True enough," Safana admitted. "Lean a bit closer, dear," she added, pulling Ashura into a huddle beside her. "And you might want to bob your head a little." Ashura did lean in, nearly cheek-to-cheek with Safana, but that was as far as she was willing to go with this little game.

"Now," Safana's voice shifted to a more businesslike tone, "Tazok and the people he took with him will be gone for at least two tendays, perhaps up to a month. And best of all he took Kysus with him. With Venkt missing that means there will be no mages around, and no one to place wards on Tazok's tent."

"There's something in that tent you really want," Ashura noted.

"Quite a few somethings, actually. There's a massive treasure-trove in there, the choice pickings from all the caravan raids. There's one particular piece that I'm after, but everything we can snatch up will be icing on the cake. Also plenty of jewelry and magical items, nice and portable."

"My gear included?" Ashura asked.

"Aye. Thought that would get your interest. Your precious boots will definitely be in there."

"By 'we'," Garrick whispered, "you mean us two and your men?"

"Exactly, and as I said before they're quiet loyal to me. Just keep in mind that even under the best circumstances this little heist will involve some fighting. The tent is guarded night and day by at least five soldiers, and Tazok left orders for several of his most trusted men to be inside it at all times."

"So," Ashura whispered, "if we aren't careful this could end up as the nine of us against the whole camp? Seems like we need a good distraction."

"Exactly," Safana agreed with a nod. "Think on it. We have plenty of time to plan."

"I know a few minor illusion spells," Garrick suggested. "Maybe that can help."

"So," Ashura said again, "cause a distraction, kill whoever's in the tent, loot the tent and then slip out of the camp? That's the scheme? And if we help you with this you'll help us escape?"

"That's the plan," Safana whispered. "So I trust you'll assist?"

"Hells yeah," Ashura said with a nod. She had suspected for a while that Safana was up to something, and it was good to finally have it out in the open, so to speak. A simple enough scheme too.

"Uh huh," Garrick agreed. "More than anything I just want to get out of here. I'll do whatever it takes if it leads to that."

"Good," Safana purred, running a fingertip along the waistline of Garrick's trousers. "Good. My men have a few ideas about how we can escape afterwards, along with taking over guard duty and getting into the tent. You two try to come up with a good distraction. There'll be plenty of time for us to talk in private again."

With that Ashura figured the Calishite woman would dismiss them and leave, but she paused a moment, teasing fingers still dancing against the front of Garrick's pants, near the hempen cord he used for a belt. "Hmm," Safana murmured, looking up into the bard's eyes. "I don't suppose you want to mix business with a little pleasure?"

"Uh…" Garrick's face was about the color of a beet now. "That won't be necessary."

For an instant there was a pout on Safana's face, though it seemed far from genuine, and quickly turned into a grin. "Figured you'd say that," she said, seamlessly rising to her feet, disengaging and walking off.

Garrick shook his head as he watched their leader go. Beside him Ashura shot to her feet as well, brushing a little dirt off the front of her leggings. When Safana was out of sight the bard turned to his partner. "Was she really about to…uhm...?" he asked.

There it was again, that adorably helpless, flustered look on his face. Ashura chuckled and slipped an arm behind Garrick, her hand resting on the small of his back. "Nah, think she's just a relentless tease," she said, shaking her head. A brief, contemplative breath followed. _Oh what the hells! Imoen had her chance with the guy._ With her other hand she reached forward, swiftly and casually untying Garrick's belt. "But I'm not," she added.

Eyes widening, Garrick swallowed. "You uh…you don't have to…" he managed awkwardly.

"Don't have to, but I don't think you object?" she asked with a sly grin.

The bard shook his head swiftly, enthusiastically in fact, and that was all the encouragement she needed to press close against him and start to yank his trousers down, silencing any more of his stammering with her lips. In time the trousers were joined by other pieces of discarded clothes, which formed a nice little nest in the grass when she finally guided him down.

* * *

Down by the lake a tight line of warriors stood shield to shield, their boots sinking a bit into the muck and their backs to the water as they desperately fended off the probing spears of a pack of gnolls. The dog-men were bolstered by a unit of human archers, who were taking advantage of a hill above the lake to send arrows raining down.

For the moment the arrows seemed to be harmlessly bouncing off shields marked with the sigil of the Flaming Fist. Most of the soldiers also wore the Fist upon their white tabards, though one of them stood out. He was dressed in green and silver armor, a winged helmet on his head and the all-seeing eye of Helm painted on his shield. His bastard sword hammered away at the shaft of the largest gnoll's halberd.

"At last," Kivan hissed through clenched teeth, drawing the string of his bow back and placing an arrow as he pushed his way through the brush that the group had been using for cover.

"Are you sure we should-" Imoen began.

"Yes," the elf cut her off.

"Bah," Shar-Teel growled. "We should just let them kill each other. Saves us the work."

"Good thing that's not your call to make," Kivan snarled as his bow groaned. He titled it back and loosed the arrow, sending it flying in a long arc that ended between the shoulder blades of the lead gnoll. The creature stumbled in shock and pain, its halberd suddenly hanging loose in its hands, giving the warrior in silvered armor all the opening he needed to cut the creature down with a single chop.

By then Kivan had another arrow knocked and was crossing the meadow in a full charge, heedless of whether the others would follow. They did, reluctantly, and were greeted by surprised shouts and drawn swords as the newcomers hit the back ranks of the bandit archers. The bandits managed to put up a momentary fight, until one of Xan's spells wavered through the air and more than half of the dozen men and women collapsed in a swoon. With that the bandits who were still standing lost their nerve and the battle became a route, and then a slaughter.

Once she'd yanked her sword out of the back of the last fleeing man, Shar-Teel turned and stomped over to the unconscious bandits, a wicked grin on her painted face. She stabbed the first sleeping man through the neck. When she reached her next victim she found a more creative spot to drive her sword, and the man awakened with a howl of pain and threw his head back before Shar-Teel's dueling-dagger bit into his throat, silencing him. She was preparing to bring her sword down on a third unconscious bandit when Xan grabbed her shoulder and hissed: "Stop!"

"Why?" she snarled back.

"We need living prisoners to question," the elf stated matter-of-factly. "Go deal with the ones that are still conscious." He pointed his moonblade towards the line of gnolls, where Kivan had already charged in and taken up one of the fallen creature's halberds, which he was using to trip and slash at the remaining beasts. Kagain was close behind, rushing forward with his axe.

Shar-Teel let out a "Hrmph!" at the notion of taking orders from the elf, but then swallowed her pride and took off in a sprint. With a running leap she launched herself at the nearest gnoll, thighs locking around its waist when they collided. Her weight and force sent the dog-man pitching forward and it howled in surprise and pain as her dagger sank into its neck. She rolled off the creature the moment it hit the ground and was slashing at a second one almost immediately.

A few furious blows and ear-splitting cries, and then it was over, the last of the dog-men shuddering in the sand and silt. Catching her breath Shar-Teel turned to Kagain. "That's five dead bandits against my debt."

Kagain shook his head. "Three. The sleeping ones didn't count."

"Bah."

At the head of the column of Flaming Fist soldiers stood a woman with braided red hair and a mess of freckles on her pale face. She watched Shar-Teel intently and held her sword up and out, at the ready.

The man who wore the symbols of Helm stepped up beside the woman and spoke first. "We are in your debt, strangers," he stated over heavy breaths, his tone strangely formal. "A most fortuitous encounter." Without another word he turned and walked towards the back of the group of soldiers, kneeling down beside the wounded. Apparently he was some sort of healer.

"Yeah," the redheaded woman added, not a hint of warmth in her voice.

Shar-Teel looked up and a combination of recognition and contempt crossed her scowling face. "Jessa," she spat out by way of greeting. "Ha! Hoped to never see your ugly fucking face again."

"Dosan," the Flaming Fist soldier replied coldly. "The feeling's mutual. Never thought we'd be fighting side by side." She gave the motley group beside Shar-Teel an appraising look. "Strange times, it seems."

"This gonna be a problem?" Kagain asked.

Jessa shook her head slightly. "Were it up to me this woman would be hanging from the nearest available tree. But it's not up to me. I assume you people are paying for her sword-arm?"

"She is in our debt," Xan said carefully.

"Debt?" Jessa snorted. "To a bunch of men? Now that's rich." At that Shar-Teel's nostrils flared and her lips twitched, but Jessa ignored her and went on. "You'll have to tell me the story later. In any case," she inclined her head slightly, "I'm Lieutenant Jessa Vai of the Flaming Fist, Beregost garrison. We had reason to believe the Sharp Teeth bandits have taken some heavy losses recently and were hoping to press them." She glanced around at the battlefield. "We've had mixed results."

"Heavy losses?" Imoen asked. "Wonder if we were responsible for that."

"Hope so," Kagain added. When Vai gave him a curious look he said: "We were part of a caravan headed through these parts. Lost the caravan to bandits, but we gave quite a bit better than we got. Had a nice pile of scalps for you before our wagons went down in flames."

"Some of these bandits are still alive," Xan pointed out, waving at the sleeping archers on the hill. "Unconscious."

"Good," Lieutenant Vai said, pointing to one of her soldiers. "Kessler: you, Terrin and Veln bind and secure any survivors for questioning." She waved a thumb at a kneeling figure near the water's edge, behind the soldiers. "We have a prisoner of our own that we caught slinking around here. These bandits attacked shortly after we caught her, and my guess is they were trying to retrieve her."

Imoen furrowed her brow and peered over at the kneeling woman. She didn't seem like a bandit; a very slim figure in nice-looking but muddy clothes that covered her from head to toe. The woman's face was hidden by her stark-white hair. _Must be pretty old._ "She's a bandit?" Imoen asked. "Doesn't look too dangerous."

One of the Flaming Fist soldiers gave Imoen a chuckle. "Looks about as dangerous as they come to me," he said, bending down and yanking the prisoner's hair back to reveal an angular, elven face. The woman's skin was very dark, with an almost blue-purple tinge to it. There was fury in her striking violet eyes and a scowl on her face as she bit down on a rough woolen gag.

Kivan hissed an elven curse and Xan's hand shot to the hilt of his moonblade.

"A drow," Vai stated.

"Well yeah," Imoen said with a dubious frown. "But how do you know she's with the bandits? Maybe she's just a traveler in these parts."

"If she's not working with these creatures," Xan stated, pointing at the dead gnolls, "that could mean something even worse. She could be part of a raiding party, a scout for an invading force."

"Not to mention that she's wearing this," the nearby Flaming Fist soldier said, pointing at a black amulet that hung from the elven woman's neck. "A holy symbol of Shar."

"Uh…" That just made the doubtful look on Imoen's face deepen. "But wouldn't that mean she's _not_ part of a drow raiding party? They're all crazy-fanatical about their spider-goddess thingie. If she's worshiping a surface god it means she's an outcast."

"What does it matter?" another Flaming Fist asked. "Drow are trouble. Sharan priests are trouble. A drow-sharan sounds like double-trouble to me."

Imoen didn't exactly have a retort for that. Still, she bit her lip and kept watching the bound elf. It seemed like this woman had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"I suppose this creature is gagged for fear of her magic?" Xan ventured.

"Aye," Vai replied. "She had some vile curses on her lips when she went down."

"Well, these prisoners will probably be easier to interrogate." Xan gestured towards the six human bandits that were being hauled into the circle of soldiers, unconscious but starting to stir.

"You're interested in what they have to say?" Vai asked.

"Very much," Xan said with a nod, as near to enthusiastic as he was likely to get. "We are on the hunt for these bandits ourselves, for various reasons."

"Well, I'm not one to turn down help." Vai nodded her head towards Shar-Teel. "Even from her, as long as she behaves." She pointed to the warrior in silvered armor. "We picked him up in our travels as well. A squire from the Order of the Radiant Heart. Says he's on a quest to prove himself and that involves clearing the Coastway of highwaymen."

The heavily armored man looked up from the last of the wounded soldiers that he had been tending to, a haggard look in his bleary eyes. He had a big, round face that reminded Imoen of a bulldog, and seemed to be a bit chunky. When he stood up straight the man towered over everyone but Kivan and a few of the other soldiers. He offered a hand. "My apologies for not giving a proper introduction," the warrior said. "I am indeed of the Radiant Heart. Ajantis Ilvarstarr of Waterdeep, and-"

Before he could finish he let out a gasp, turning his head as an arrow streaked through the air. White mist trailed the missile as it hissed by and struck Vai squarely in the chest, piercing her breastplate with a metallic _pang_ and an icy crackle. She grasped at the shaft, her face tightening in pain, then lost her footing and slid down to the sand. All around shields clanged as their steel edges locked together, and less than a heartbeat later arrows were bouncing off of them.

Imoen found herself huddled up behind the shieldwall, heart pounding and an arrow knocked and ready, though she wasn't sure where to shoot. She gasped when she felt Xan place a hand on her shoulder and the air around her seemed to briefly shimmer.

"Hey, what was that?" she asked just as the answer came to her. Her bow was right in front of her eyes, but she couldn't see it.

"You did so well the first time," Xan explained. "Well, besides not killing the mage who tried to set us all on fire. I thought you would like to go scouting and skirmishing again."

"Guess that's a good idea, just wish you'd warned me first." She didn't have any other ideas, and she could at least have a look-about. And now that she was invisible the sand was running, so without another word Imoen got to running too; breaking from the cluster of soldiers and dashing along the lakeshore a bit.

It couldn't be helped that her invisible feet left a trail of prints in the sand, but thankfully the bandits didn't seem to notice, and soon she was running through the grass and up the hill, circling round. There didn't seem to be a whole lot of bandits, just scattered, lone archers beneath the trees and a clump of armored warriors surrounding a big man dressed in plate and sporting grey hair and a small warhammer. He seemed to be the leader, but didn't draw her attention nearly as much as the creatures just behind him.

_ Oh yikes!  _ Padding impatiently behind the formation of warriors were two wolves, broad and muscular as ponies, with the snarling mouths and amber eyes of beasts right out of some horror story. Atop each creature sat a hobgoblin, each armed with a sturdy spear. The wolves seemed eager to charge in but the man with the warhammer was holding his troops back for the moment, probably hoping the archers would soften the enemy up a bit more.

_ Hmm _ . Maybe she could keep that from happening. _Scouting and skirmishing_. Yeah, she could at least do something about those archers.

The bandits were spread thin along the ridgeline, and stepping as silently as she could it was easy enough for Imoen to find a lone archer nearby, a woman who was hunched beneath a broad sycamore tree plinking away with her bow. The tree would hopefully provide a little cover.

By the time Imoen realized how incredibly risky and stupid this was she had already crept within stabbing distance of the archer, her dagger out in her invisible hand. She pushed the notion aside and lunged, aiming for a kidney and sinking her dagger into the unarmored back of the other woman, at the same time reaching around and clasping her palm hard against the bandit's mouth.

There was a muffled gasp of shock against Imoen's hand and sudden, violent shaking that was less a struggle and more a bodily convulsion. A twist of the dagger and the woman sank silently to the earth. With a glance around Imoen didn't see any reaction from the nearest archers, their eyes still trained on targets below. She yanked the cloak off the shoulders of the dying archer at her feet and wrapped herself up with it, hoping it would make for good momentary camouflage.

Some of the bandits and the two wolf-riders were charging now, two prongs descending from different sides of the hill with a wolf at the lead of each column. The man with the hammer still stood at the top, surveying the battlefield and glancing at the archers nearest to him.

With his back to Imoen.

She thought of using Silke's old lightning wand, which still hung from her belt. She'd only get one shot at this, but as far as she knew there were only two charges left in the wand, and the bandit leader wasn't close to anyone at the moment. Not quite the right occasion for her last lightning bolts.

Glancing down, Imoen noticed that there were white, glistening feathers poking out of the quiver of the fallen archer. Pulling some of the arrows out and placing one of them against the string of her bow Imoen felt an unnatural crispness in the feathers. _Ice arrows_. She was sure of it.

If the nearby bandits noticed her at all they must have mistaken her for a fellow archer as she stood up, drew her bowstring back and pointed the glittering arrow at the man with the warhammer. An overwhelming calm came over Imoen as she whispered a spell, her bow straightening and centering. The magic guided her hands, adjusting her aim as her eyes trained on the armored back of the bandit leader. He rose and turned just a bit as he raised an arm, holding his hammer high and beginning to order the next charge.

Time slowed to a crawl and all sound left the world as Imoen emptied her lungs and then released the arrow. The man was locked in his stance, hammer held up. The arrow was a streak of crackling white that flew faster than Imoen's eyes could follow and bit deep into the unarmored spot beneath the bandit leader's arm. A burst of crackling frost erupted from the wound rather than blood and the man bellowed in sudden shock and pain.

As eyes turned from the injured commander to Imoen's position she had already begun to launch into another spell, the fingers of one hand weaving while the other gripped her bow.

_ Hope this trick works again. _

From behind the sycamore that Imoen was crouching beneath a towering figure came running towards the bandits; a broad mass of muscle and fury with black billowing hair, bronze skin, furs about his loins, sandals on his feet and a greatsword high above his head. It was an image right out of one of those Krognar the Uthgardt stories Ashura had always loved, and as Imoen ran full-speed in the other direction down the hill she hoped that the shock of the big warrior appearing would be enough to keep the bandits from noticing that the moving figure was completely silent.

The tried-and-true trick worked well enough, arrows flying momentarily at the bigger target while Imoen hugged the high grass and sprinted for the lake. Once a few shots had passed harmlessly through the wavering illusion the bandits caught on and Imoen heard the whistles and _thunks_ of arrows falling nearby.

Behind were angry bandits readying arrows, ahead was a fierce melee at the shore of the lake. At least the bandits here had their backs to her for the moment. As she ran towards the battle Imoen placed another ice-arrow to the bowstring and picked the best target she could: the back of one of the wolf-riders, whose mount was bleeding from a dozen places and snapping its jaws at Ajantis. The crackling arrow zipped through air and armor and the hobgoblin lost his balance and slid from the bucking creature's back.

Before she could think to knock another arrow Imoen's feet carried her into the battle, a blur of fur and steel and twisting, maneuvering bodies that nonetheless gave her cover from the angry archers at her back. She ducked low, relying on her small size and quick reflexes to dodge and twist away from the heavy blows of the combatants, her dagger out as she tried to stab any vulnerable spot that showed itself.

After long moments of terror and constant motion she found herself bending over and completely out of breath, the still body of one of the giant wolves spread out nearby and not much moving in her field of vision. When she managed to wipe the stinging sweat from her eyes and look up Imoen saw that most of the soldiers were pushing their way up the hill, accompanied by angered cries and screams. Only Xan seemed to be upright and nearby, along with the kneeling drow prisoner and a lot of still bodies.

A low, pained groan came from one of those bodies, and when she looked over Imoen realized that it was the Flaming Fist's leader, flat on her back and holding a hand tight against her punctured breastplate. Wild spasms and shivers ran through her body. The arrow that had struck her was gone, but it had left frost glittering all across her hand and chest, light plumes of icy mist still rising.

Kneeling by the fallen officer Imoen noticed that the woman's lips had turned a pale blue. "Damn," she muttered, at as much of a loss as she had been with Kagain. Maybe she could at least try to bandage the wound, though it seemed like the cold was doing far more damage. She began to fumble at that straps that held Lieutenant Vai's breastplate in place, and as she pulled the first strip of leather back a tall figure knelt down beside her and helped.

It was the squire of the Radiant Heart, his armor a little more battered and a very weary look on his broad face. The sounds of battle were sporadic now, and seemed to be moving up the hill and into the forest. Imoen guessed that what was left of the bandit force was in retreat.

The steel plate slipped loose and together Imoen, Xan and Ajantis worked it over Vai's head, the woman's body still shaking uncontrollably. Some of the blood that clung to the front of the lieutenant's white shirt beneath seemed to be hard-frozen to the fabric. "You're a holy warrior right?" Imoen asked Ajantis. "You can heal her with your hands."

The squire shook his head, face grim. "I've no more healing to give this day. We'll have to make do with bandages and blankets." Already he was measuring out a strip of linen, though there was hardly any blood flowing to staunch. What was killing Vai was the cold. Imoen was sure of it.

Looking up from the shivering woman Imoen pointed. "Wait! The drow! She's a priestess."

Xan's eyes bulged in horror. "Absolutely not!" he exclaimed.

But Imoen was already on her feet, racing the handful of paces to where the elven woman knelt. "You're a priestess. You can heal this woman right?" she asked the drow.

The prisoner gave a curt, instant nod in reply.

"And if I cut your bindings you'll heal her? In exchange for your freedom?"

Another nod, this time a bit slower. Cautious.

"Alrighty then!" With a few lightning-quick flicks of her dagger Imoen cut the ropes behind the drow, who shot to her feet and ripped the gag away herself.

"You cannot…you…" Xan stammered, but it was already done. Before he or Ajantis could react the drow woman leapt forward with surprising grace, energy crackling around her right hand as she invoked the name of the Nightsinger. The palm of her hand fell directly onto Vai's chest and one more shudder went through the woman's body.

Then Vai's back arched, the shivers stopped and she took one deep breath, inhaling like a drowning woman who'd just been given air. She sank back to the ground, breath deep but even, color quickly returning to her face.

"I kept my promise," the dark elf stated with a thick accent and a scowl, looking up at any who would dare meet her gaze.

"Yep," Imoen said with a smile. "Thanks."

"You…you did," Xan admitted, his moonblade still out and ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The notion of Flaming Fist soldiers, Ajantis, and Viconia all being met together while they're fighting bandits is an idea I got from another fanfic I read a long time ago, though the situation was a bit different in that story. It just seems to make sense, since they're all encountered in the same area more or less. I would love to give credit to the author of that fic for the inspiration, but sadly I can't remember where I read it. If I ever remember or re-read the story I promise to add it to this note!


	25. Nooses Tighten

_ "Tis the sweetest of scents, _

_ The gathering storm." _ – Talanthe Truesilver, _Cycle of Thunder_

* * *

"I'll tell you everything, I swear!" the prisoner pleaded, looking away from the suspended body of his companion as it twitched its last. The dead man on the rope had been the least cooperative, kicking and cursing at the Flaming Fist soldiers the moment they began asking questions. Once he had been made an example of and hanged from the sycamore tree the five remaining bandits all wanted to talk -none of Xan's magical coercion necessary- and soon a chaotic stream of stories, information and pleas pouring from their lips.

Lieutenant Vai had the prisoners separated a bit and spoke with them one at a time from there. They were all happy and eager to offer the location of Tazok's camp and the trail signs that led to it, along with everything they knew about the forces that were arrayed there. Along with the information came their stories, many of the prisoners claiming that they came from poverty on the streets of Iraebor and would never have signed up to buttress the Black Talon forces in the west if they had known banditry would be involved. Two of the prisoners even claimed to have been caravan guards, pressed into service when they were captured months ago.

That was a story that gave Imoen some hope, but Vai was dismissive. "And that's truly _all_ you know," she finally asked, facing the first prisoner who had offered to spill his guts.

"Truly miss," he said with an enthusiastic nod. "And if there's anything else I can do to help I'll be happy to."

"Of course." Lieutenant Vai turned to her soldiers. "Hang him."

There was already a second noose tied to one of the numerous low branches of the sycamore tree, and the barrel they had used to suspend the first man was set up beneath it. The second man had to be dragged, kicking and struggling to the spot while the remaining prisoners looked on in horror. A Flaming Fist soldier had remained in the branches during the interrogation, and quickly went to work tying more ropes up. "But I told you the truth!" the prisoner protested before a blow to the stomach ended his struggles and they managed to stand him up on the barrel.

"You did," Vai stated coldly. "And we thank you. But justice must be done. Try to face it with some dignity will you?" With that they unceremoniously kicked the bucket out from under the man's feet and went to work setting up the next prisoner.

"Seems like a waste of rope," Shar-Teel muttered, scowling and looking away from the growing collection of corpses beneath the branches and the terrified men and women who were next in line. "A quick chop would do."

Vai shook her head, eyes fixed on the grim work. "We have to show that the law has finally come to these woods. Nothing demonstrates that quite like a tree full of highwaymen." She looked askance at Shar-Teel. "Judging by your expression Dosan, I think the message gets across. Contemplating your future up there?" Shar-Teel's hand shot to the hilt of her sword and the two women shared a glare. "Give me a reason," Vai went on, "and I'll be happy to add you to the tree. Your family name can only save you from so much."

"But I will not be added?" the dark elven woman asked nearby, voice stiff. She was unbound and had pulled the hood of her tan cloak up over her head. Vai's soldiers lingered near her, tense and ready.

"No, you will not, drow," Vai replied. "Questionable as your presence is in these woods you did heal me and several of my troops. Maybe even saved my life." There was no trust or apology in her tone, but it was enough for the drow. She gave Vai a curt little nod.

"My name is Viconia DeVir, not 'drow'," the dark elf said. She looked over at Imoen. "And as this girl guessed I am simply a traveler in these strange lands."

"An exile, you mean," Xan ventured.

"Well, that means she's no harm to us," Imoen interjected. "She's not going to call bandits or drow raiders or spider queens or any of that down on us."

"No harm?" Kivan snarled. "This is a treacherous and deadly creature, even without a pack of her kind nearby."

Imoen rolled her eyes. "Just looks like a woman to me. And one in sore need of protection, since sods everywhere seem intent on gutting her just cause of how she looks."

Viconia nodded, stepping a bit closer to Imoen. "An accurate description _abban_. I would offer my services to you, since you rescued me and there is safety in numbers, but it seems your males do not approve."

"Well I'd certainly approve," Kagain spoke up. "We're in damn sore need of a healer." He gave Shar-Teel a meaningful look and she rolled her eyes.

"And I wouldn't mind her traveling with us either," Imoen added. "Dun care what stodgy elves think."

Xan and Kivan shared a brief look, and Kivan gave the slightest shrug. "She has much to prove I suppose," Xan noted.

"Yep," Kagain said, "and she'll get to the proving soon enough long as no one objects." He turned to Lieutenant Vai, who had finished overseeing the last execution. "Seems we have similar goals, strange as our meeting's been. What's our next step?"

Vai gave the motley band that had come to her rescue a brief inspection, biting her lip. "I'll certainly keep an eye on the drow, but I'd be a fool to turn away help from your little mercenary group if we're to truly take the fight to Tazok. We should work together."

"My thought exactly," Kagain agreed, offering Vai his hand. "We team up and take it to the buggers. A nice afternoon all told, having a small army fall into your lap."

'Small' was an understatement as Imoen figured it. Besides Vai and Ajantis there were eleven Flaming Fist soldiers left alive, a hearty little unit but they'd be far outnumbered by the forces the bandit prisoners had described. Still, between the Fists and their odd little band Imoen hoped it would be enough to rescue Ashura and Garrick if nothing else. And they knew the trailsigns that would lead to Tazok's camp now. They could at least scout it out and think of something.

Soon the small force of lawmen and mercenaries formed up and began to head north and west, leaving behind a desolate battlefield and six corpses in the uniform leathers of the Sharp Teeth bandits hanging from the branches of a sycamore tree. A warning and a sign of things to come, perhaps. Still, Imoen couldn't convince her stomach to stop churning.

* * *

"I couldn't really do the story justice," Ashura admitted. "It was something about Krognar being lost in the desert and stumbling on this city with crystal towers and walls of golden marble. And when he approached the city there was no one manning the gates. But…oh, and he had gone into the desert because of a witch's vision. That's kind of important because the witch comes back into the story later." She laughed a little against Garrick's chest. "See, I'd make a terrible bard."

He chuckled. "Maybe not terrible, but you certainly need some work. One thing about storytelling: if you forget something crucial you should never admit it to the audience. Instead just make stuff up as you go along and hope it fits."

They had found a cozy spot to lie back beneath the stars after the evening meal and the rounds of drink and song that followed, Garrick's back propped up against a smooth oak trunk and Ashura propped up against him, wrapped in their cloaks and nothing else, skin against skin. It was strange how peaceful the camp could seem this time of night if you weren't on duty. Well, peaceful might not have been the right word, since there seemed to be at least one drunken brawl every evening, and the piercing barks and yelps of gnolls fighting for dominance was a common sound.

There was always loud chatter and song by the mess tent, an ongoing party really, complete with couples sneaking off into the dark after a few rounds of rum the way Ashura and Garrick had. Around them the towering trees gently swayed, crickets chirped, and the gruesome totems that decorated some of the tents were cloaked in shadow. It was easy to forget that the rollicking celebration went on the way it did because any of them could be sent off to kill and die the next morning, and peaceful as the forest seemed there would be gnolls and worgs fresh on the scent of any recruit if they dared go beyond the treeline.

When Ashura tipped her chin back and looked up at the bard she noticed that his soft blue eyes were tilted up and far away, his soft gaze upon the stars. Damn if the boy wasn't pretty, dreaming eyes and kissable lips and square jaw and all, though it kept vexing her that despite Garrick being about her age if not older the word 'boy' still kept coming to mind.

He was naive, hapless and easily led, though she had discovered rolling in the grass with him that he had some unexpected skills. His mouth was certainly good for far more than singing, for one thing. She guessed that Silke had taught him those tricks, though she didn't want to ask.

Ashura's handfull of adventures with boys were things she looked back on more as misadventures, and she couldn't shake the feeling that this little tryst might end up the same, especially if Imoen ever found out. In the Keep everyone had known everyone's business, and she hadn't been able to smile at a guy without tongues wagging and gossip swirling. It had gotten really bad after she spent a night with Hull and he turned into an obnoxious braggart about the whole thing.

Then there was Shistal, who had gotten annoyingly clingy the moment she'd shown any interest in him. She'd lost interest right after that, but everyone had treated them like a couple anyway, and Imoen had been annoyingly jealous. Letting Shistal know that she wasn't interested hadn't worked until she got very, very blunt. At least Garrick seemed too easygoing to get like that.

Eager and easygoing. The combination made for a nice comfort on warm nights like this, out on the grass and away from prying eyes, when tomorrow they both could die. _No reason to think on it any more than that._

"It's a shame you never read any Krognar the Uthgardt stories," Ashura finally said, shaking off the moment of uncomfortable introspection. "I'm sure you could tell 'em better. And use that 'making stuff up' trick, since some of the stories get a little repetitive."

"I don't know," Garrick mused. "Honestly I've never been good at that."

"What? You're a fantastic bard. And hey, I've seen a few. They come through Candlekeep all the time."

"Nice of you to say. But what I mean is I dunno about making stuff up. My grandpa Nalen was famous for that, but I never got the hang of it. See, he wrote plays and a few operas that were big in Waterdeep back in his day. Me and my brother got trained in the theater, and I think mom hoped one of us would compose something famous the way grandpa did, but..." He tapped his head. "I ended up with a lot of _other_ people's songs and stories up here, but when I try to think of my own it's a blank.

"Grandpa Nalen said he got inspired by going out and seeing the wide world. I thought if I wandered around with theater troupes long enough I'd get inspired too, but mostly I just learned more of other people's stories."

"An opera huh?"

"Yeah. It was about some heroes saving Tentowns from...a bunch of stuff. _The Saga of Icewind Dale_. Supposedly based on a true story. Truth be told the opera didn't have much of a plot, but there's a lot of amazing music and grand melodrama."

Ashura was silent against Garrick's chest for a moment, before giving his shoulder a squeeze and speaking softly. "You've already got a story though."

"Huh?"

"' _The Tale of Garrick the Reluctant Bandit_ '."

"Ha! That's true. I could tell the story of our adventures. But do they really count as adventures?"

"Trying to survive out in the wilderness surrounded by dangerous people and creatures? Yeah, that's the definition of adventure." A pause, then she added: "You might want to embellish a bit to make us sound more heroic though."

* * *

With something between a snarl and a growl Ashura stumbled forward, clumsy feet tromping in the dirt. Before she could recover from the blow Knott had delivered to her back and whirl there was a streak of glinting steel before her eyes. Her opponent's sword was pointing at her throat.

"Ha!" the Calishite bandit barked out. "Knew you were nothing but bluster."

Ashura shrugged slightly, lowering her weighted practice sword to the dirt of the training ring. "You're pretty quick. Beat me fairly."

"Beat your cute little ass soundly, you mean."

Ashura's lower lip twitched. "Don't think you raised any bruises."

"We'll have to go a third time then," he said with a chuckle, spinning his sword dramatically. "Make sure you go to bed black and blue tonight and-"

"Learn my place in our little hierarchy, yeah yeah yeah," Ashura growled, her knuckles going white as she gripped her sword. _Well this isn't bloody working_.

Safana had suggested using 'honey' to deal with Knott ( _Blech!_ ) and Crush had told them to settle their differences in the training ring. Still, the two suggestions had given Ashura the idea of mollifying Knott by letting him win a few sparring matches. Maybe he'd see her as less of a threat to his manhood or whatever was going on in that pea-brain of his and leave her alone after that, or so the thinking went. It seemed like a better notion than cracking the teeth of a man she was supposed to be working with, and with the way he wielded a sword it was easy enough to dance around and take a few blows without any real pain or injury. He moved fast enough, but some of the kobolds she had faced had put more power behind their swings than he did.

The trouble was that Knott was the most insufferable winner Ashura had ever met, and the fact that she could easily lash out and wipe the smug grin off his face just made it worse. It was all she could do to hold her sword-arm back and simply glare.

"Well, you're certainly making it clear you have lessons to learn," Knott replied. "Especially when it comes to swordplay. It's not the same as playing with dollies, you see."

_ Alright, that's it! _

"Aww, Knott?" a silky-smooth voice chimed in from the edge of the circle. "Haven't you put the poor girl through enough?" Safana was perched on one of the log barriers that ringed the training yard, her legs crossed and hands braced on the wood. "You've certainly showed off enough for me."

"Enjoy the show?" Knott asked with a chuckle.

Hopping down from the barrier Safana sashayed towards them, half-shrugging and half stretching her bare shoulders like a cat. "Enjoyable enough, though seeing you beat on a clumsy little girl leaves something to be desired." She stretched her arms above her head and tossed her hair back. "Wouldn't a big strong man much like yourself make a better opponent? A better show. I know seeing two-rough-and tumble-men vying to prove who's the toughest gets my blood pumping more than bruises on a little girl."

"Heh, you're right." Knott pointed his sword at Garrick, who had been reclining against a log nearby. "Been meaning to beat the crap out of him for a while anyway."

Garrick gave the other man a little 'who me?' look and then shrugged, stepping into the yard. "I suppose I'm due huh?" the minstrel asked, a self-effacing smile on his face.

"Yeah. And shouldn't you be avenging your girl's honor or whatever rot? Then again I figure you're...what is it they say? 'A lover, not a fighter.' Thought I heard ya making her sing earlier this morning, but I doubt you can make that sword sing the same way."

The taunt made Garrick blush a bit, though Ashura just chuckled. The bandits had teased them about being a couple from the start, and you can't keep a secret in a place like this. _Let 'em talk._ She didn't care.

The training yard offered a wide variety of blunted, weighted weapons, and Garrick had picked out one that resembled the sort of rapier he favored. He was no master fencer but he wielded it well enough, and when Knott stopped taunting and actually started swinging at Garrick they made a surprisingly even match, much to the bandit's frustration.

Beside Ashura a nasal voice piped up. "How's about I show you what's what?" he asked her. "Looks like I'm not the lowest one on the ladder anymore."

Turning, Ashura glared at Credus, then shrugged and hefted her sword. "Sure. Come at me."

The junior bandit seemed pleased to finally have someone to beat up on, but in the space of a few breaths that changed. The next thing he knew Credus was sprawled out on the ground and pressing his palm against a bleeding lip, his other hand clutching his stomach and wincing.

"Seems you're still the lowest on the ladder," Ashura noted.

"Damn," Credus moaned. "How did you…damn. Knott's never going to let me live this down."

"Ha!" Knott shouted, breathlessly, his sword still clanging with Garrick's. "That's for damn sure. Can't even beat up the little girl."

Shaking her head Ashura walked over to a nearby bucket and drew a little water with a wooden ladle. She felt Safana's presence nearby, casually hovering the way she tended to do. "Thanks," Ashura whispered to the other woman.

"Knott should be the one thanking me, poor fool," Safana noted. "You looked ready to chop his head off, which wouldn't do us any good. Seems I have to keep saving you from yourself."

"Why?" Ashura asked. It was something that had truly puzzled her for a while, since she wasn't exactly the sort of 'big strong man' that Safana seemed intent on surrounding herself with.

"Exactly _because_ you could break Knott in half without sweating. I'm proud enough of the little band I've collected; they make for a good crew of obedient little dogs, but there's little teeth between them. You two are different. The minstrel has magic and the wit to use it well, and you have bite."

"Eh." Ashura shrugged. "I appreciate the flattery but-"

"I mean it. When you had your little proving match with Raemon you reminded me of someone I once knew. Vashala was her name, one of the deadliest sword-arms we ever had on the _Exzesus_. She could climb and dance the rigging as well as I or any of the others, and dance around swords just the same. But when she swung a blade there was real muscle and fury behind it, as well as grace. Quite a combination."

"Yeah, still sounds like you're buttering me up." In the ring Garrick and Knott's swords were clashing and clanging, a lot of parries but no decisive action.

The pirate-woman chuckled. "I try, but it seems I just can't charm my way into your good graces the way I can with the men. Glad we have our little deal at least."

"Yeah. And I'll fulfill my part. No need for flattery." Pulling off her quilted training coat, Ashura dismissed herself from the yard and set out for a storage shed. She had a long list of chores to complete before the day was out. Soon she was lost in them, carrying armfuls of goods from hut to hut, the usual dreamy fugue that came with drudgery descending upon her.

Sometime later, a half hour perhaps, she was shocked out of that fugue by a voice she had never thought to hear again.

"Shura!" the voice hissed, whispering and close by. "Thank the gods! So _so_ glad to see you in one piece."

Ashura nearly dropped the armful of rugs she had been carrying and looked around frantically, but the source of the voice was nowhere in sight. "Um."

"I'd hug you but I'm afraid that'd break the spell," the voice went on.

"Ims?" Ashura whispered. "Where are you?" There were people milling about in front of nearby huts, but no one within earshot. And hopefully none of them would notice that she was talking to herself.

"Yeah. I'm not a ghost and you're not going bonkers. Xan made me invisible to scout out the camp."

"Then you might go visible at any moment? Uh…"

"Yeah," the whispering voice admitted. "That's true."

Ashura glanced about quickly and then set the rugs down, gesturing with her head towards an open stretch of grass nearby as she did. As she made her way towards the edge of the woods and away from the crowd Imoen seemed to follow, judging by the faint whisper of the grass behind her. A few paces later she turned towards the invisible presence. "If the spell wears off you can slip into the woods right? This a good place to talk?"

All was silent for a moment.

"You nodded didn't you?" Ashura asked.

"Oh," Imoen replied in an embarrassed whisper. "Sorry. Ya, this is a good place to talk."

Ashura nodded and a relieved smile finally creased her lips. _Imoen. It's really her._ "So glad you're alive Ims. Knew you had to be but…" She shook her head briefly. "Boy do I have some stories to tell you."

"Knew you had to be alive too. I mean heck, a few bandits couldn't put you down right? Although…was worried 'bout what they might do to you. They didn't hurt you did they?"

Ashura shrugged. "A death-match and then some drudge-work. It wasn't too bad."

"Ack!" the disembodied voice gasped. "What do you mean by 'death-match'? And what about Garrick? Is he…is he still alive?"

An uncomfortable look crossed Ashura's face and she glanced away.

"Oh gods! What happened to him? Is it…is it something you don't think I wanna know? Just tell me."

"Uh…" Ashura quickly shook her head. "He's alive, and he's fine." She tried to make her face as blank as possible.

"Really?"

"Yeah. It was a little rough but we stuck together and…"

"Then what was that look about?"

_ Ugh _ . There was a sort of prying suspicion in Imoen's voice that Ashura knew all too well. Maybe if she changed the subject. Or-

"Oh!" And there it was: realization. At least to her credit Imoen managed to keep her voice down to a hissing whisper. "Gods damn it! You boffed the guy didn't you? I so so _so_ knew this would happen!"

So much for the subject never coming up with Imoen. She should have known better. Not like she'd ever been able to keep anything from her friend before, even for a few seconds.

"And after you promised me," Imoen went on. "It's just like with Shistal all over again."

"Hey! I never slept with Shistal."

"Ah-ha!" Ashura thought she felt a gust of air. Imoen pointing an accusing finger perhaps. "So you _did_ sleep with Garrick?"

"Well, not exactly…" Ashura began, then cut herself off and sighed. Pointing out that as lowly bandit recruits her and Garrick hadn't had access to potions or preventative herbs and had ended up doing about everything short of 'boffing' was _not_ going to win any points with Imoen. The last thing Ashura needed to do was talk details. "Not exactly but…kind of. Look, I'm sorry Imoen. We were in a tense situation. And is this really the time for-"

"Damn right it's the time!" Imoen cut her off with a harsh whisper. "You want to talk tense? Here I am worried sick about you, thinking the bandits might be torturing you or…or worse. We go hunting and tracking an army of them through woods full of goblins and giant spiders and basilisks and crazy hermit-women, and when I finally find you you're partying away with the cute bard."

"It's not like that…" _Well, maybe a little like that._ "Look, I'm sorry. Didn't know you were coming to rescue us, and I thought we might die out here and…" She thought of a few things to add but silence seemed like a better idea.

"It's okay," Imoen sighed, apparently done with the tongue-lashing. "Like I said, I just _knew_ this would happen. I'm still going to rescue you two doofuses, don't worry." After a moment she added, in a faux-stern voice: "But one day I will get my revenge. You will know not the time nor the place."

Ashura nodded. "That's fair enough." Imoen's forgiving nature had never let her down before, though she hated watching it get tested. And in the past she had tested it more times than she wanted to count…

"And speaking of rescuing you two," Imoen went on, "how best to do that?"

"Well, you said Xan was with you?" Ashura asked, relieved to change the subject. "What happened to the caravan exactly?"

Imoen told Ashura the brief version of that, including Branwen's death. She then explained how she had gone on to gather a strange sort of rescue party, starting with the survivors of the caravan and then a duel-happy mercenary, a squire, Flaming Fist soldiers and a rogue dark elf. Ashura's eyebrows gradually rose as the tale went on.

"So you have a small army waiting out there?"

"A teensy one. But it's gotta be enough to smuggle you and Garrick out of the camp."

For a time Ashura's eyes were fixed on the forest, then she looked back at the sprawling domes in the great clearing. Finally she shook her head. "No."

"Uh…what?" After a pause Imoen added: "I wander through the woods for nearly a tenday trying to find you and you don't _want_ to be rescued?"

Turning towards where she guessed her friend was standing Ashura nodded. "Imoen, these people killed our friends, sacked our caravan, enslaved me and Garrick and forced us to fight for our lives in a gladiatorial death-match. And they took my stuff." She turned back towards the camp and scowled at it. "I'm not running after all of that. I'm right where I need to be. We all are."

Safana had asked for a distraction, and damned if she wasn't going to get a big one.

* * *

With a metallic whisper Ashura slipped one of her newly acquired swords into a wolfskin sheath, and then patted the hilt of the weapon with a satisfied smile. It was good to have sharpened steel on her hip again. She adjusted her armor as well, regretting that she had nothing more solid than the simple bandit-leathers. Nearby Garrick was also securing his weapons: a rapier on his belt and a light crossbow at the small of his back. He turned and gave Ashura a nervous look.

Reaching out she took his hand squeezed it firmly. Much of the camp was lightless, just a torch and a smoldering cookfire here and there. It was well into Middark. "Will we-" Garrick began.

"Of course we will," Ashura cut him off. "Always do." She glanced towards the edge of the woods. Somewhere out there Imoen and her ragtag little army were preparing as well. Over the past two days they had relayed messages back and forth, Ashura or Garrick going to a spot at the edge of the woods where Imoen or Xan could use a simple spell to talk with them over a modest distance. As the communications went back and forth a plan had formed.

Now they were lurking in the shadow of a hut that gave them a good view of Tazok's great tent. Knott had provided them with the weapons before marching over to take up guard duty at the dome, and for the moment Safana was off taking care of last minute preparations.

"Well just in case I wanna say…" The bard's words trailed off and he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly bashful and at a loss for words.

Since her little chat with Imoen Ashura had kept Garrick at arm's length. Maybe she was entertaining the notion that things with the bard and her friend would patch themselves up after this. Or she just felt guilty. _Bah!_

She leaned in and planted a firm kiss on Garrick's lips. When she pulled back he seemed to be smiling in the darkness, all the fluster gone. _Nice when that happens_. "For good luck," she whispered. "Glad Kagain made us partners. We've made it through a lot." She clasped his arm and added. "We'll make it through this too."

Movement caught Ashura's eye and she turned to watch Safana approach from the shadows. _Good._ She was sick of all this waiting and planning. Well past time to unsheathe her blade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up Next: A big freaking battle!
> 
> [Charname] jumping Garrick's bones wasn't exactly something I planned from the start, but it just seemed to be where things were heading at that point, so much like Ashura in that actual scene I figured "Oh, what the hell!"


	26. Laughter in the Flames

_ "Always maneuver so your back is to the sun and the light is in the eyes of your enemy. If you are fighting at night or indoors try to make your enemy face any nearby flames." _ –Davo Abraxus, _A Manual on the Art of Combat_

_ "If there are no flames available maybe it's time to set one of your enemies on fire" - _ Anonymous note scrawled in the margin of Candlekeep's copy of _A Manual on the Art of Combat_

* * *

Lantern light bobbed gently between brambles and saplings, illuminating the forest path. Within the weak band of light two men in green cloaks and sturdy leathers made their way, heads swishing as they gave the forest around them cursory glances. The midnight foot-patrol could see little beyond their path and a few nearby trees; it was an overcast evening, the sharp sliver of Selune faint behind gloomy clouds. All around them the forest was still and silent.

That silence was shattered by the sudden thump of a bowstring, followed by the swish of an arrow and a gasp from one of the men. Another bowshot followed almost instantly. The first man went limp and fell face-first into the brush, the feathered arrow that had lodged deep in his back shaking as violent shudders ran through his body.

The second patrolman managed to stay upright, gripping at the shaft that protruded from his side as his lantern clattered to the forest floor. His other hand pulled clumsily at the hilt of his sword.

Branches snapped and flew aside as something heavy bounded through the undergrowth close by. The patrolman took a deep breath and yanked at his weapon, but failed to pull it fully from the scabbard before Shar-Teel rushed into the field of lantern-light, her blade leading the way. It plunged through the thick layers of leather that covered the man's chest, and with a ripping sound and a splash of gore the tip of the blade burst out from between his shoulder blades.

The stab and the shock dropped the man to his knees, and when Shar-Teel yanked her sword from his chest he was dead-weight flopping to the ground. More branches rustled as people emerged from the trees, following Shar-Teel into the lantern light; first Kivan and Imoen with their bows out and ready, followed by the Flaming Fist soldiers. The warriors filed onto the forest path in an orderly, well-rehearsed fashion.

* * *

Safana opened her eyes at the sound of snoring and the rhythmic rise and fall of the broad chest beneath her ear, a sure sign that Tenhammer was down for the count. Pressing her palms against the sleeping man's torso, she rose and stretched briefly before tossing the furs back and disengaging her naked body from his bulk. There was no need to go about it carefully, for she had no fear of rousing him. The sleeping poison and drug she had slipped into his rum (darfly venom and a pinch of poppy essence) would insure he did not wake for a while.

Indeed Tenhammer didn't stir a bit, and likely wouldn't have if an army came marching through the tent. For a moment Safana admired how content and at ease he looked laying there, naked and sprawled out fully across the surface of the cot. The rum and poison would insure that when he finally did awaken his memory of tonight would be a blur if not a complete blank. Hopefully he'd never realize exactly how he got put to sleep.

As Safana gathered her clothes and belongings her hand rested on the hilt of her dagger, and she gave the sleeping man one more lingering look. Taurgosz Khosann would make a dangerous enemy in the future, if he put two and two together, and he'd never be more vulnerable than he was right now. It also wouldn't be the first time she had killed a man in his sleep _after_ putting him to sleep, though that had been under very different circumstances.

But no, he'd done nothing to deserve that. And she rather liked the big brute.

She turned away and slipped her leather halter on, then climbed into her leggings and laced them up. Next she strapped on her belt and the long knife that hung from it, and then came her boots, followed by her jewelry. Finally she strapped on a bandolier of throwing knives. After dressing and pushing her way past the flaps of Khosann's tent she gave a nod and a smile to his bodyguards and slipped out into the darkness.

Judging by the smear of silver behind the clouds that marked Selune's location it was just a little after middark. Safana plotted a leisurely course around the camp, enjoying the momentarily quiet and biding her time before she approached Tazok's tent. Ash and Garrick stood in the shadow of a nearby hut, trying to look inconspicuous. Sauntering up to the pair, Safana gave them a grin and a low whisper. "Khosann won't be a problem," she said with a little pride. "And I see you two are ready."

Ash tapped one of the swords at her hip. "Yep," she said, stone-faced as always.

"Shame you weren't willing to take Ardenor out the way I suggested," Safana whispered teasingly.

With a smooth, silent motion Ash pulled her sword an inch out of its sheath, showing a little steel. "This'll work just as well for him," she stated calmly. "Maybe better. Don't think I'm his type." The sword slid back into the scabbard.

_ Bah _ . That girl was just no fun. When you tease them about seducing hobgoblins they're supposed to blush or get all indignant, not casually brush it off.

* * *

From their staging ground beneath the trees the little force had a good view of the guard stations that marked the edge of Tazok's camp; crude wooden barricades lit by torches and manned by pairs of hobgoblins or humans. The posts were sparsely arranged, and if the Flaming Fists struck and moved quickly they would be inside the camp before the rest of the outer guard knew what was happening.

"I still mislike her presence on the battlefield," Kivan whispered, attempting to glare arrow-holes through the head of the dark elf who was huddling close by. "As likely to stab us in the back as assist in any way, and I don't see why such a self-concerned creature would even _wish_ to assist us."

There was a clink of armor as Ajantis nodded solemnly, kneeling beside the ranger. "There is a stench of evil about this woman. I told Lieutenant Vai of it when we first captured her."

Upper lip twitching, Viconia glared back at the both of them. She was hunched down close to Imoen, whose side she had kept to whenever she could over the past two days. The dark elf gripped a sharpened throwing-disk tightly in her hand. "There's nothing remotely sweet about your smell either, _riivil_ ," she snarled at Ajantis. "I'm grateful to the Nightsinger to be upwind at the moment." Next she turned her full glare on Kivan. "And as I have explained before: this girl saved my life, and I intend to repay. Is it my fault a wild beast such as yourself cannot understand the concept of debt?"

"I understand honor and obligation better than any drow," Kivan whispered. "Your kind-"

Viconia actually let out half-a-laugh at this, interrupting him. "Drow have no honor, yes. But you forget that I serve the Lady of Loss now. She teaches that-"

"Would you two stuff it?" Kagain interjected. "The battlefield is _not_ a place to give sermons or 'mislike' anything. Just do your damn jobs and you can debate elven culture or fuck or rip each other's throats out or whatever on your own time."

Kivan fell silent and Viconia simply nodded and said: "Yes _alur_."

"Well said," Vai hissed. "You. Elf." She gestured with her sword towards Kivan. "Seems you have some reach with that bow. At my signal put an arrow in that hob at the far right post. The one on the right side." Next the tip of her blade turned towards Imoen. "You. Girl. Try and hit the hob on the left when he does that."

Imoen gave her a frumpy look. _Like the elf's automatically the best archer!_ It had been her arrow that instantly killed the first patrolman, after all.

"Rest of us will charge the central guard post as soon as those arrows fly," Vai went on. "Silence from here on out."

They obeyed, and not another whispered word was spoken as they inched forward, pushing through the last of the brush that separated them from the open grass. When the armor ceased clinking and the small force faced the unaware guard posts Vai held her sword aloft and took a deep breath, preparing to signal.

* * *

Ashura, Safana and Garrick glanced at each other as the first alarm bells began to ring. A moment later gongs clashed as well, calling the camp to full alert. "There's our cue," Safana noted.

Garrick readied his crossbow and focused on Tazok's tent. "Enter stage left." He began to march forward and Ashura quickly matched his pace, walking purposefully towards the great dome. Safana slipped into the shadows behind them as they went. Their job in this little part of the play was to draw attention. Hers was not.

"Stop right there!" a man barked at Ashura and Garrick as they placed their feet on the first wooden step beneath Tazok's great dome.

"Yeah!" Credus added, standing to the left of the guard. On the other side Knott silently stepped forward. "No one's allowed up here but us who've drawn the duty."

"We're here to relieve you," Ashura said.

"I never heard anything abou-" the first guard began, his words turning to a gasp and then a gurgle as Knott's dagger sank into his neck.

"Afraid she's right," Knott quipped as he twisted the blade. There were two more guards posted by the tent flaps who were not Safana's men, but they had barely begun to move when a crossbow bolt caught one in the chest and Ashura launched herself up the steps, charging the last guard standing. The unlucky woman managed to draw her sword just as Ashura closed and batted it aside, driving her second blade between the guardswoman's ribs. It all happened too fast for an alarm to be sounded.

Still, the commotion on the porch didn't go unnoticed. A bulky hobgoblin stuck his head and shoulders out between the tent flaps, holding a longbow. "What the hells-" he began before he fully surveyed the scene. As realization dawned in his eyes his hand snapped back to clutch an arrow.

Before he could pull the bowstring back a throwing knife lodged in the side of the hobgoblin's muscular neck and his hand went limp, the arrow clattering to the floor. With a dash and a stab of her sword Ashura finished him off.

Readying another dagger, Safana leapt to the upper portion of the porch beside Ashura. Several of her men followed and took up guard positions as the two women silently shouldered their way through the flaps of the tent, followed closely by Garrick and Knott.

The interior of the great dome was spacious and clean, dominated by a massive throne of cushioned iron that sat upon a fine rug of spun silk. Banners and stolen paintings decorated the hide walls, and a wide, square firepit sat at the center of the room beneath an iron stove. Near the pit was an oaken table, its chairs overturned by the two occupants of the room. They had apparently been enjoying a midnight card game before the commotion and the invasion.

Ashura instantly recognized one of the pair: Raemond, the blonde Black Talon who had tested her in the ring. The other guard was one of the biggest gnolls she'd ever seen, tall and broad with scarred orange fur, clad in the strips of mismatched leather his species tended to wear for both armor and clothing. The pair reacted much faster than the other guards had, the gnoll hefting a two-handed ax and rushing the intruders without hesitation while the human drew a bow. The arrow was loosed in an instant, whistling by Safana as she dove behind the stack of wood by the cookfire.

The gnoll swung his ax in a broad stroke aimed at Ashura's head, which she managed to duck, but she gasped and stumbled back when the creature slammed the oaken shaft of his weapon against her chest in the same motion. As the gnoll slashed out again Garrick's crossbow thumped, but the bolt that struck its chest hardly seemed to slow the creature, simply eliciting a roar from its frothing mouth as Ashura desperately parried the double-blades.

By then Raemon had another arrow knocked and aimed, and he didn't hesitate to shoot. The arrow sped towards Garrick and cut through the fabric of his cloak, missing his body by a hairbreadth as the bard danced to the side. Raemon quickly plucked another arrow and drew, but before he could let it fly Garrick managed to sing out a few clipped words and a misty latticework shimmered into being between them. It solidified in an instant; a wall of white mudbrick that blocked off the far side of the tent and left Raemon cursing.

One of Safana's throwing knives sank into the gnoll's bicep with a thump, but the ax kept swinging, drawing a narrow slash across Ashura's shoulder as the leather tore. Thankfully the gnoll's attacks seemed to slow a little after that, and Ashura finally managed to catch its ax with one sword and slip under the creature's guard with the other. Her blade bit deep, opening a gash across the beast's broad stomach. The shock of the creature's guts spilling out onto the hardwood floor was enough to end the ax swings, and a high slash across its neck finally brought it down.

As the beast struck the floor the brick wall wavered slightly and Raemon stepped through the illusion, his bow abandoned and his longsword leading the way. He burst into view right next to Ashura, their swords instantly locking in a close and frantic melee.

Armed as she was with her favored weapons, Ashura managed to make her second duel with Raemon even quicker than the first. After a few ringing blows and counters she had his sword locked high and managed to bring her offhand blade in at the same time and drive it through the front of his neck. She disengaged from the dying man with a kick and shook the blood from her swords, glancing around.

"Well that went smoothly enough," Safana noted, rising up and walking over to a pile of chests, weapon racks and other assorted treasures in a corner of the tent. Some tools appeared in her hands as she approached the biggest, gaudiest chest and began applying alchemical powder before picking the lock.

Knott was silent and wide-eyed, staring at the two corpses. Ashura shared a look with him, then gave the man a cold nod.

By then Safana had pulled the lid of the chest back. The lamplight glinted off jewel-encrusted cookware, necklaces, rings and bracelets piled high inside. She ignored the jewelry and picked the most mundane object from the chest: a wooden scroll case that she didn't hesitate to open. Her lips curled into a content smile as she unrolled the sheet of hide within and looked it over briefly. Satisfied, she rolled it back up and slipped the case into her belt.

"So that's what this is all about?" Ashura asked. She had wasted no time searching through the weapons and picking her own enchanted short swords out. She was searching for her boots now. "Looked like a map."

"That's what it is," Safana replied evasively, picking out a few choice pieces of jewelry before stepping back and inviting her companions to do the same.

Ashura shrugged and didn't press, instead searching through the racks of magical items until she had her full kit back: enchanted boots, plumed helmet, protective ring and all, a shimmer running over her body as she slipped the ring onto her finger.

"That's a pretty minor enchantment," Garrick noted, picking out some musical instruments and wands.

Ashura shrugged. "I went through a lot of shit for this ring," she admitted. Now if she could just find some decent chainmail she'd feel complete. Unfortunately nothing on the armor racks looked like it would fit her. Instead she picked out a pair of studded bracers attached to fingerless gloves. Lines of draconic script were stitched across the leather.

"Now those are nice," Garrick said. "They'll quicken your arms when you swing your weapons. Not that you need to be any faster but I guess every little bit helps."

"Flatterer." Ashura nodded and slipped the gloves on, flexing her fingers. In a blur of motion she drew her swords and cut through the air, enchanted steel whistling. "Yeah. Very nice."

"I think this is about all I can comfortably carry," Safana said, and Knott nodded as well, his belt pouches stuffed with gems. "Time to give the boys a chance to snatch what they can and then see what's going on outside. If we just walk in the opposite direction of the chaos we'll be able to slip out of the camp, and you two can go help your friends if that's what you want."

"It is," Ashura said instantly. "My best friend's out there. Not leaving without her." After Safana gave her a nod she added: "Thanks for helping us escape. And everything else you've done."

"Yeah," Garrick smiled. "We owe you."

"You do indeed." With that Safana wheeled towards the flap of the tent and they followed her. The sounds of alarm had never ceased, and in the distance they could hear shouts and the occasional ring of steel on steel. Close by, however, all was silent, and there wasn't even a word of greeting from the others when Safana and Knott pushed the tent flaps back.

The familiar creak of bows greeted them. It came from a ring of Black Talon archers and hobgoblins at the base of the wooden steps. Ardenor Crush stood in their midst, a large grey worg pacing behind him, and beside him stood Credus, a self-satisfied grin on the junior bandit's face. At the top of the steps lay the bodies of Safana's men, pin-cushioned with arrows, likely killed while the others had been fighting inside the tent.

"Credus," Safana stated coldly. "Never would have guessed you'd have the initiative."

"Figure I'm going up a few rungs on the ladder after this," he replied.

As she dove back into the tent Safana's arm shot up and over her head, flinging a throwing dagger through the gap. Crush managed to swing his shield up and the blade lodged there just short of plunging into Credus' forehead. At the same time the arrows flew, and Knott fell face forward with three of them sticking from his torso.

Behind Safana Ashura was scowling, weapons out as she crouched low. "Very loyal men you've got," she noted.

"Not now," Safana growled, genuinely furious for the first time Ashura could think of. The fact that she didn't have all of her men as tightly wrapped around her finger as she had thought seemed to be a sore spot. That and they were surrounded by archers. And royally fucked.

* * *

The sounds battle-cries and clanging weapons were quickly being replaced by panicked screams and general chaos. It would have all been terrifying to Imoen if the chaos didn't seem to be favoring her side. Even then it was a little scary.

Still, she did her part to add to the mayhem, drawing her bow back and sending a sputtering fire-arrow in the direction of another hut, then another. Flames bloomed and spread wherever the magical arrows struck, illuminating the battlefield and sending fingers and smoke and cinders into the air, as well as flushing more and more bandits from the burning tents.

Up ahead between the fires the enemy forces had formed orderly ranks, hobgoblin shields locking and gnoll shock troops towering over them with spears out and ready. A wave of Xan's magic that rippled through the air and the lines of soldiers changed all that, sewing confusion just as the Flaming Fists surged towards the enemy force. Half the hobs and gnolls turned on each other and began to exchange blows, while many of the rest stood with stunned, vacant looks in their eyes, offering no resistance as the swords of Ajanatis and Lieutenant Vai tore into them.

Behind the wavering footsoldiers a line of Black Talon archers had drawn their bows and promptly been enveloped in a cloud of billowing darkness before they could get a proper volley off. Viconia, who had summoned the cloud with an invocation to the Nightsinger, grinned at the shifting wall of blackness with pride from her position next to Imoen. One by one the archers stumbled from the cloud, disoriented and turned in random directions. They made easy targets for Kivan and Imoen that way.

"Forward!" Lieutenant Vai shouted from the vanguard of their little formation. "Press it!"

And press they did, cutting through the disordered mass of bandits like a knife, ever forward. There were sickening crunches and high-pitched cries all around Imoen as heavy boots stomped on the fallen and swords swept down, piercing anyone who was still moving.

Although speed, surprise and magic were on their side numbers were not. Everywhere Imoen looked she saw more and more bandits streaming out between the huts. Their little formation of soldiers seemed a tiny island in a sea of hostility and bristling steel. The march forward ground to a halt as they were assailed from all sides, and soon Imoen found herself lost in the chaotic melee, ducking and dancing away from enemy blades and trying to make herself very, very small as she fired point-blank again and again.

A few deep breaths later she was clear of the pressing bodies, back against the wall of a hut. She felt a gentle hand upon her shoulder and gasped, looking over into the violet eyes of the drow woman. The firelight seemed to dance within them.

"You said you can see in the dark _abban_?" Viconia asked.

"Ya," Imoen nodded breathlessly. "With my magic ring."

"Then you have use," the drow stated brusquely. "Follow my lead." With that she turned towards a large contingent of Black Talon soldiers that was flowing towards them, through the gap between two large huts. Stretching a hand forward the dark elf's voice rang, almost musically: "Nightsinger, cut a path through the light."

In the midst of the advancing enemy a starburst of darkness bloomed and swiftly grew. It was hard to tell but it seemed a slightly different spell than the one Viconia had summoned before; the substance of the darkness was uniform and absolute, rather than an undulating cloud. The effect was the same though: surprised shouts rising from the enemy ranks as they were blinded and enveloped.

Without hesitation Viconia dashed forward and plunged into the wall of darkness, her sharpened throwing-disc leading the way. Imoen followed as quickly as she could, and when she passed through the envelope of the spell and her eyes adjusted the drow's game became clear to her.

Blinded by the sudden darkness the humans were frantically shifting around, many in a panic, trying to feel their way out. Viconia had no such problem. When she came within striking distance of the nearest Black Talon she swung her sharpened disc out in an arc. The slash was followed by a burst of glowing red from the man's throat, which he desperately clutched at.

What followed was a swift and merciless hunt through the dark as Viconia and Imoen silently attacked one glowing red silhouette after the other. After a pointblank shot from her bow felled one of the men Imoen slung the weapon over her shoulder and drew her dagger instead, avoiding the wild slashes of some of the panicked mercenaries and stabbing at vital spots as she danced from one enemy to the next.

The last of the mercenaries proved the most challenging; blinded as he was he kept lashing out at the air around him with quick but methodical strokes of his sword. In the end he lost his footing when a throw from Viconia's disc bit into the back of his ankle. The drow followed through by plucking the mace from her belt and bringing it down on the back of the man's head with a two-handed swing and an ugly crunch. As the darkness lifted, Viconia looked across at her companion and gave Imoen a pleased, toothy smile.

"You dance well in the darkness," the drow stated. A compliment, but the look the dark elf was giving along with the eight warm corpses at their feet made Imoen's stomach roll, and though she thought she had gotten used to the hideous sights and smells of battle she felt bile rolling up in her throat and turned her head suddenly, retching while Viconia let out a mirthful laugh. It wasn't the sights or smells, but the hot blood that smeared her hand and blade which made her sickest.

* * *

_ "I can kill any number of opponents, provided they come one at a time."  _

The words from one of the old combat manuals bubbled up to Ashura now as another band of hobgoblins tried to push through the flaps of the tent. It was more like three at a time, but the entrance was an effective choke-point, giving the tightly packed warriors far less room to maneuver than Ashura and her companions.

Outnumbered, even by one or two, and the enemy can easily overwhelm you, but if the fight can be broken down into manageable chunks it's a different matter.

Little chunks. A swing. A twist of the body to the side as the hobgoblin's sword cuts the air close by. A breath in as he reels back to readjust, his body language indicating that he's about to go for a backhanded slash. A breath out as you slip low and jab.

With a pained grunt and a spurt of blood the hob crumpled to the hardwood floor. He was instantly replaced by another, but it was a simple matter to run through the motions again. Breathe in, breathe out. Lock swords and press forward. The next hobgoblin to shoulder through the gap went tumbling back a moment later with a great gash across his chest. The one after that fell forward with an open throat. Number five took a crossbow bolt through the eye before Ashura could get a sword past her guard.

There were no more after that, and the three companions took a moment to catch their breath.

* * *

Pacing in front of his great war-wolf, Ardenor Crush glanced back at the growing fires on the west side of the camp. The screams and shouts were getting closer, and they sounded urgent. He could even make a few of the words out now.

"Someone put some arrows through that damned bat!"

"We can't see!"

"Where the fuck is Khosann?"

Crush shook his head. Credus hadn't mentioned the big distraction that had accompanied his group's little heist. Likely he hadn't been told about it. Safana was a clever one, and it's always smart not to tell your men the entire plan if you can help it.

The fight right in front of him looked just as ugly as the one behind. He had sent twelve of his Chill soldiers into the tent, and only two had stumbled back out, bleeding to death. The traitors inside were dug in, and there was just one entrance, unless he ordered teams to start hacking at the layered hide walls. That would have been a good idea a little while ago, but they were quickly running out of time and options.

Turning on his heel, Crush marched towards his worg and snatched up a spear. "Archers!" he barked over his shoulder as he climbed onto his mount. "Fire arrows to the dome! Burn them out!" Tazok would have flayed him alive for burning the tent and endangering his precious treasure, but Tazok wasn't here, and they had to turn this battle around _right now_ , loot be damned. No one present objected, and in a moment burning arrows were hissing through the air and flames were rising from the wooden foundation of the dome.

Wheeling his mount towards the battle to the west Crush continued shouting orders. "Garclax, Wilsa and Daelon, you and your troops are with me. The rest of you stay behind and pick the traitors off if they come out!" With that he pressed his thighs against his worg, hefted his spear and took off at a full charge.

* * *

Tendrils of grey smoke were slithering up the wall of the tent as Ashura desperately hacked at the opposite side. There seemed to be multiple layers of hide, pulled taut and annoyingly thick. Tazok had built himself a bloody fortress, though apparently it was quite flammable. And to top it all off once Ashura managed to slice a hand-sized tear in the wall an arrow immediately struck nearby before she could even peak out.

"They have archers covering every side," she said with a frustrated growl, followed by a cough. Garrick was coughing too, a hand covering his mouth and tears welling in his eyes.

Ashura turned towards the main entrance of the dome, bent low and took a deep breath while she still could. The sound of crackling flames surrounded them, and beneath the wall a hellish red glow peaked through. As the light, smoke, and fiery roar grew Ashura was more and more reminded of the dreams she had been having the past few nights. She could almost imagine that leering skull beyond the thinning barrier. Was she hearing laughter in the rhythm of the lapping flames?

She found herself walking forward towards the entrance, swords pointing the way. "We'll be choking in a minute," Ashura pointed out. "Might as well charge while we still have breath."

"It's suicide," Garrick protested.

"Yeah," Safana agreed. "Death awaits you out there."

"Yes," Ashura said absentmindedly, eyes fixed on the tent flaps and the growing inferno beyond. She kept walking. "Death awaits."

_ Death _ . He was quickly becoming a familiar friend. And she had her dancing shoes and her enchanted swords now, along with the arrogant, youthful confidence that Death only awaited other people.

A rush of scorching air blew the flaps of the tent back further, giving her a clear view of the fire that raced across the wooden stairway and up the walls. Looking out, she did not see earthly flames.

_ No _ . This was the furnace of Gehenna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abban - Drow for 'ally.' More accurately translated as 'not-enemy.'
> 
> Alur – Superior.
> 
> Riivil – Human.


	27. A Girl Named Ash

_ "Here I come, and the Hells come with me _

_ Wreathed in flames that grow with my fury _

_ And if I burn you will all burn with me"  _ –Nalen Anthras, _The Icewind Dale Saga_

* * *

When Viconia and Imoen emerged from the gap between two huts and into a wider clearing the battle seemed to be winding down. Kagain was at the head of the little line of soldiers now, his ax slashing at the shields of a tight circle of hobgoblins that was losing ground fast. At either side of the dwarf stood Ajantis and Kivan, both splattered in blood and swinging hard at stragglers. In the close-quarter chaos Kivan had slung his bow and was once again wielding a long poleaxe. As terrifying as the elf could be with a bow, he seemed just as deadly if not more so with the ax; his blows had great weight behind them, and as Imoen watched she saw a meaty chunk of a hobgoblin fly off after a furious downward chop.

Glancing over Imoen saw that Viconia's eyes were on the night sky. Following the dark elf's gaze she caught sight of wide, billowing wings swooping down from above. Wind rushed against her face as the creature dove and sped over the nearby huts, its wingspan near the length of a cart and its body the size of a man. Though it was roughly the shape of a bat there was something sharp and unnatural about the creature's appearance; its fur coat was an onyx black that seemed to absorb the light, and Imoen was fairly certain she saw pinpricks of glowing red in its narrow eyes before it swept by. Viconia had summoned the creature moments before, and its fangs were already flecked with blood.

The great demonic bat twisted high into the air, then dove down upon the press of hobgoblins, rising a beat later with a squirming body between its jaws. It only lifted the kicking figure briefly before letting him plunge between his fellows, the body striking the ground with a sickening thump. The bat wheeled overhead briefly before tucking in for another dive.

A keening howl rose up across the battlefield, drawing Imoen's eyes past the remaining clump of hobgoblins. There between the huts came the largest worg she had ever seen, paws beating the earth at a full charge. It's coat was steel-grey, and atop the beast rode a hobgoblin with a bushy beard, billowing red cloak and a long spear leading the way. Behind the wolf a force of bandits and gnolls rushed to keep up.

_ Gods above and below! How many bloody bandits are there? _ Imoen's hand raced to one of her pockets and pulled out the wand of lightning they had pilfered from Silke. If there was any special occasion to use up the last charges it was now.

With a sharp _crack-BOOM_ a streak of white lit the night, zipping through the air before her. As big a target as the worg made it was moving fast, and the bolt streaked just by its flank, the shot mistimed. Hot white sparks burst from the bodies of several of the warriors who were charging in behind the wolf, their limbs shuddering involuntarily. They fell to the dirt, smoking and convulsing, and behind the line of fallen humans and hobs flames rose from a hut where the path of the bolt had ended.

Blinking away the afterimage of the lightning Imoen followed the charging worg with her eyes and the sparkling end of the wand. Maybe she could hit him with the last charge-

Before she could shout out the wand's command-word a second time the tip of the leading hobgoblin's spear struck the first target it could reach: slipping past Kagain's shield as the dwarf turned and tried desperately to block. The steel at the tip of the spear punched through armor and flesh, and the oaken shaft bent as Kagain was lifted off the ground. For a horrifying moment that seemed to stretch and stretch Imoen watched her companion rise into the air on the end of the spear, which carried him along briefly before he fell away and slammed into the wall of a nearby hut. The force of Kagain's armored body crashing through the wall of hide snapped the support poles, and the whole thing collapsed on top of him with a groan and a flutter.

_ Not the first time I've seen him get impaled _ , Imoen reminded herself, fingers clenching tightly around the wand. _Maybe. Just maybe._ But alive or not he was on the other side of the battlefield and there was nothing she could do for him now. So instead she raised the wand, pointing at the hoard of oncoming bandits and searching for the thickest clump of the bastards she could find.

There was one more charge left, and not nearly enough of the camp was on fire.

* * *

Smoke, flame and singed leather parted before Ashura as she plunged through the gap and ran across the porch of Tazok's great dome. All around was searing heat, but sweat and fury protected her for the moment. She just had to push through fast. The moment she burst through the flames she felt the eyes of every archer upon her, twinges running across half-a-dozen points on her body where they were sighting, bowstrings taut.

She turned and twisted and ducked, pushing forward all the while. Smooth wood and sharp steel whistled by her cheekbone, the feathered fletching brushing her face. An arrow swished by beneath her left arm, and another grazed her right shoulder and bounced off the padded leather. Each step took her closer to the archers. Soon her swords would matter far more than their arrows.

More eyes. More bows being drawn. She hopped to the side to avoid a shot at her thigh. She bent her back just enough to wriggle away from an arrow aimed at her gut. Her shoulder-

The warning was there but she didn't move fast enough. Instead of whistling wind there was white-hot pain as steel bit into her left shoulder. A familiar sensation followed: the sudden wobbling as her legs went limp and useless beneath her. She managed a nerveless step forward before her feet fell away and her knees hit the ground. It was just like the time Imoen had shot her. Shot her and hit something vital.

Before she tumbled all the way forward pain bloomed from a different spot, the breath nearly punched out of her as an arrow struck her stomach. _Fuck!_

Ashura dropped to hands and knees, her swords clattering upon the dirt. Behind her the fire of the great domed tent was roaring, crisp furnace-winds lashing at her back. Before her bristled more arrows than she could count through her blurred vision. She only saw one of the archers clearly: Credus' boyish face was split ear-to-ear with a satisfied grin and he was taking aim, lit by the flames.

_ No way.  _

With all the strength she had left Ashura lifted her empty hand. _No way am I letting_ that _little shit be the one who kills me._

Compared to the light put off by the flames the white-blue glow of the ghostfire was nothing. Credus only noticed it when the light shot from Ashura's hand and struck him, his eyes bulging in shock and pain. Frantically Credus grasped at his chest and fumbled there, feeling his vitality yanked away, piece by piece, along a tendril of white light. Ashura felt it all as she greedily pulled it to her: her enemy's waning strength, his fading will, his hammering heartbeat. And his fear.

Fear. _Yes. You bastards will learn to fear me._

With new vigor flowing through her Ashura pushed to her feet, and as Credus's heart fluttered and stopped she stretched her other hand out, found another target and lashed out with a second blast of ghostfire. It struck a hobgoblin; a thick, strong creature who was tough enough to keep drawing breath after she had pulled what life she could from him. The blast just knocked him back and sent him stumbling.

Still, what a fine dish his stolen strength made. Her regenerating wounds pushed the arrows out as they closed, and with swords once more in hand Ashura shot to her feet. Arrows were drawn but for the moment she felt no aim upon her; the power she had used had given the archers pause, and a collective gasp rose from the ring of men and women.

She took a step forward, then another, feeling the waves of heat follow her. From somewhere deep inside waves of a different sort arose; cold and sharp and driven out by her fury. She could feel them radiating from her body, see the shimmer in the air about her. And beyond that she could see the effect on her enemies. As she marched towards them they stepped back, gasping, and then recoiling. Her steps quickened.

_ Yes. _

Some of the archers turned away. Others dropped their bows.

_ You bastards… _

Some began to run. Others screamed and covered their eyes. She sprinted now, her swords behind her as she readied to strike, propelled by the strength she had stolen from Credus and by the turning tide as her enemies cowered before her. But more than anything she was pushed on by red-hot, blood-thirsty _rage_.

_...will learn to fear me!  _

The first man she reached had turned to flee, and she closed the distance with a leap and a slash of her left-hand sword. Her momentum, the keen blade of the magical weapon, and the angle of the slash all conspired to slice through the back of the man's neck, cleaving through muscle and sinew and bone and out the other side with a spurt of red. The slash sent his head rolling off his shoulders, and the wave of panic grew.

A chaotic flurry of stabs and slashes and hysterical screams followed. Bodies hit the earth, one after the other, stabbed through the back or grasping at gaping wounds. In the end as Ashura charged towards the sounds of battle in the distance and the roaring melee nearby there were six dead or dying bandits in her wake and about as many fleeing into the darkness and fire before her.

* * *

Screams of terror pricked at Ardenor Crush's ears, pulling his attention away from the dying Flaming Fist soldier he had just speared. What in the name of Maglubiyet was happening at the back ranks? With a yank and a torrent of blood he pulled his weapon free, and a simple squeeze of his thighs brought his worg around. As he turned he raised his broad wooden shield up, covering the side that faced the enemy force.

He was glad for the reflexive precaution when an arrow flew in and stuck into the wood, rattling his shield arm. The enemy force didn't seem to have many archers but the redhead he had spotted in their ranks was relentless with her arrows.

The panicked wails of his soldiers were growing steadily closer, and as Ardenor turned he could see the source of the chaos. A woman in a plumed helmet was pushing her way through the ranks. He watched as arrows flew at her, one after the other, and she casually ducked beneath them and charged on. Soldiers tried to press in close to her after the bows missed, but the moment they neared her supernatural fear seemed to roll through their ranks, making many cower and flee. As Crush pressed his worg forward he saw one man shake the terror off and slash out with his sword, exchanging a few brief blows with the woman before she managed to catch him with a high guard and skewer him with a lunge all at once.

Shimmering waves rose from the woman's body much like traces of heat, though when one of the waves stuck Ardenor it sent ice through his veins. It was a familiar effect; a power he had seen employed many times by creatures from the lower planes. Many devils and demons, even minor ones, could radiate supernatural fear as they stalked a battlefield.

Trotting closer, Ardenor recognized the woman now; her black hair and icy blue eyes. _Ash_. The new recruit. Did she carry some sort of demon blood within her?

His mount rocked uncomfortably beneath him, bathed in the icy waves, but the hobgoblin simply pressed on and ignored the effect. It wasn't _true_ fear, just an infernal trick. He had faced far worse, and mastered his senses and emotions long ago.

Aiming his spear at the approaching woman's chest Ardenor Crush snarled. "Traitor!"

"Slaver!" she barked right back. "Murderer! Your little band kills my friends and takes me prisoner and you expect _loyalty_?" The waves of fear seemed to be emanating from the woman's eyes, and despite their icy color Crush couldn't help but think that they were burning. Reflections of the dancing flames, perhaps.

Turning his mount a bit Crush tried to circle his foe. "Expect a bit of gratitude. We spared your life, after all. But what's give can be taken away!" With that he kicked his worg and closed the last few paces between them in a charge, baring down with his sturdy oaken spear.

Ash was a blur of leather and steel, dancing out of his way as swiftly as she had danced from flying arrows. The worg let out an ear-piercing cry as they passed and one of Ash's swords bit into its side. It lurched and bucked but stayed on its feet, paws skidded through the dirt before it whirled and turned to face the woman again, haunches close to the flames of a burning tent.

Crush aimed his spear once again but Ash didn't wait for the second charge. Instead she pitched her head forward and sprinted _towards_ him, heedless of the sharpened steel pointed at her chest and the great wolf baring its teeth at her. With a kick Crush launched his mount forward again, but they had just begun to move when Ash closed the distance and leapt, clearing the snapping jaws of the worg and stomping on its head as she elbowed the shaft of the spear aside.

Steel bit into splintering wood as Ash's sword caught on Crush's shield. Their bodies collided and he let his spear fall away, kicking, punching and struggling for purchase before his hand went to the hilt of his sword and drew. He had barely managed to slip the weapon free when the bucking mount beneath them sent them both tumbled from its back.

As they fell Crush turned and twisted, and Ash took the brunt of it when they smashed against the ground. He tried to make it count by driving the pommel of his sword down into her face. There was a satisfying crack and a stream of blood from her nose, but it didn't seem to give his enemy pause. Within the next breath she delivered a blow with her own pommel before she managed to press both feet against his chest and kick him back. Crush rolled with the kick and onto his feet, rocking back on his heels and steadying himself. Ash was on her feet just as quickly, oblivious to the pain of the fall or her broken nose.

_ Some sort of berserker _ , he thought as he looked into her wildly burning eyes and got into a guarded stance, sword and shield ready. His scale armor was dented and torn open in a few places where her swords had bit in during their wild struggle atop the worg, and he could feel blood trickling from the shallow wounds. _She won't feel any of this until the battle's over._

A deep intake of breath and then Ash simply launched herself at him, a flurry of lashing blades. Crush tried to turn and outmaneuver her, maybe catch her with a blow from his shield and get her off balance, but she was just too bloody fast. More and more he found himself backing and circling, pieces of his shield falling away as he fought defensively.

For a moment it seemed things would change when the woman's back turned towards the prowling worg, but as the wolf lunged forward and snapped its teeth at Ash she repelled it with her lefthand sword, drawing a red line across its snout as it whimpered and scuttled back. The worg even tucked her tail between her legs as she disengaged, perhaps overwhelmed by the magical fear at last.

Crush tried to take advantage of the distraction, delivering several fierce overhand blows, but Ash knocked each aside. It seemed she could attack on one side and parry on the other readily enough. _It won't last though_. He'd fought many a berserker before. He could wear her down, wait till her blood cooled, and then-

Instinctively Crush raised his shield and tilted his body a bit at the sound of a nearby bow creaking. He moved just in time to block the arrow, which struck his shield with a _thunk_. Ash pressed in to take advantage, launching another flurry of blows, but with a steady hand and focused will Crush batted each away. He managed to retort with a counter-blow across the edge of one of her blades that nearly caught Ash full in the face, the woman turning her head just in time. One of the straps that held her helmet on tore loose and the helmet tumbled from her head, a gash welling up along her cheek as her sweat-slicked hair tumbled free.

That gave her pause, and now it was Crush's turn to press the advantage. He braced his shield, raised his sword, preparing for a series of feints and overhand blows.

The thump of a crossbow and a sudden explosion of pain in his shoulder ended all hope of that. His charge became a stumble and bent scales flew as Ash hacked a swath across his chest. The next few blows rang against his sword and shattered shield. As he backed away from his opponent he tried to take in the battlefield with a quick glance.

The red-haired girl was closing in on the right, her bow leading the way and another arrow knocked. Behind her were perhaps two other warriors, neither of them his own. To his left Garrick, the other traitor, approached, reloading his crossbow.

And in front Ash was advancing, blood dripping from her blades and the fire still burning in her eyes. The worg was behind him now, and Ardenor knew that if he could leap atop it he could send the mount bolting over the fiery debris and escape. It suddenly seemed the only option; the only way he could see out of this tightening noose, for although he had shrugged off Ash's power easily enough, for the first time in years Ardenor Crush knew fear.

* * *

With a clatter Lieutenant Vai sank to the ground, her back resting against the wall of one of the bandit huts and her head light from blood loss. Wheezing, ragged breaths issued from her mouth as she pointed her sword out in front of her. It was a strain just to hold the damn thing up; she doubted she could swing it.

But perhaps she wouldn't have to.

Randal and Thavin –two of her soldiers- were still upright and fighting back-to-back, and there only seemed to be two enemies left trading blows with them. When the tide of battle had separated them from the others and Lesya had gone down with a spear through her eye it had seemed that they would be making a final stand against the wall of the hut. Now the hoard had evaporated.

Perhaps the battle was going well elsewhere and the enemy was fleeing. Perhaps there had been fewer than Vai had first guessed in all the chaos, and the four bandits she had managed to kill before taking a deep stab in the thigh had done more good than she would have thought.

Regardless, it would all be over soon. One way or another.

A gnoll with dark, amber-speckled fur swung its greatax at Thavin, breaking through the man's shield with a crunch that shattered wood and bit deep into the arm beneath. Thavin stumbled forward, in obvious agony, but with gritted teeth he managed to keep gripping his sword. The stumble became a sloppy lunge, and before the gnoll noticed that its ax-swing had left its body open Thavin's sword plunged deep into its sternum.

Both the gnoll and the Flaming Fist struggled for a time to stay on their feet, but the gnoll seemed to have gotten the worse of it, and its ax fell from nerveless claws. For several moments it snarled and growled at the man who had impaled it, until a slash from Randal's sword finally silenced the creature.

Randal had finished his opponent a breath ago, and that seemed to be the last of them, though screams and shouts could be heard on the other side of the camp. All three Flaming Fists drew a momentary sigh of relief, the two battered soldiers turning towards their superior. Thavin's arm looked bad and unnaturally bent, though Jessa guessed that she was the most in need of healing. Her armor felt impossibly heavy and her head felt as if it was trying to break free and float away. Perhaps that paladin from Waterdeep had a little healing magic left. If they could find him.

A great black shape swooped from the darkness and collided with Thavin, enveloping and lifting him with grasping claws and swishing wings. The warrior and the creature spiraled up into the darkness, faster than Vai's eyes could follow.

Randal turned towards the direction the monstrous thing had swooped in from, and at the same time a throwing disk flew from the opposite side, burying itself deep in the back of his calf. As Randal wobbled in shock and fell his companion plummeted from the darkness, striking the nearby earth with limp limbs and a metallic clang. The body of the bat followed, crashing into a pile of barrels where its wings beat once before going still. In an instant the bat's body dissolved into inky darkness, breaking apart and fading to nothing.

Thavin was very still, and before Randal could stand a figure leapt from the shadows nearby, a tan cloak billowing out behind her. As Randal gave the newcomer a dazed look and tried to raise his sword, the woman slammed her mace into his hand and sent it clattering away. The next blow knocked him onto his back.

_ The dark elf!  _ Vai realized, scowling.

Viconia pulled her mace aside, and a red glow enveloped her other hand. Without hesitation she drove her glowing palm downwards and into Randal's face. Vai heard an ugly crackle from where she lay and saw the soldier's legs spasm and kick for a moment before they settled to the ground. Rising, Viconia shook her head and turned towards Vai, stomping forward.

"Did you think I had forgotten what you nearly did to me?" Viconia hisses as she stepped within striking distance. "You would have hanged me. Simply for what I am." Vai's sword was as easily batted away as Randal's had been. The drow's violet eyes where narrow slits, glaring right into Vai's. "Did you think I would forgive?"

All Vai could manage to do was shake her head.

"Then I hope you enjoyed the time my healing afforded you. I did give you your life. But now that I have the opportunity…" Viconia dropped her mace and a red nimbus flickered into being across both of her hands. "…I am taking it back." The hellish glow grew brighter and brighter, filling Vai's vision as the drow's fingers wrapped around her neck.

* * *

For the third time in a tenday Kagain awakened feeling like his insides had been ripped out, used in a game of treasure-seeker by a band of imps, and then stuffed back in by a blind gnome. Every muscle was knotted and aching, every square inch of his skin felt bruised and tender, and his throat was as dry as the Anauroch. Still, it wasn't as bad as some hangovers he had woken up to, and way better than being dead.

After rubbing his eyes and blinking a bit his vision slowly adjusted to the dim light. It was dawn or close to it, and he was sitting atop the collapsed wall of a hut, the caved-in ceiling near his head. Thankfully it was not one of the huts that the redhead had set on fire. Smoke still hung thick in the air, along with all sorts of other nasty smells, but there were no nearby moans or sounds of movement. He seemed to be alone.

Next Kagain reached down and carefully touched his chest, assessing the damage. He had a fuzzy memory of a spear-strike delivered by a worg-riding hobgoblin and followed by a short flight, then a bone-jarring crash. Fortunately the tip of the spear had missed his heart (well, it wasn't entirely luck, since he had twisted his body to keep the damn thing away from that spot.) His armor was just about useless now, gaping at the chest over a black splotch of crusted blood and tender flesh. In a few days that spot would just be a faint scar though.

Kagain allowed himself a slight smile as he got to his feet, the tip of his gloved thumb rubbing against the spot on his forefinger where the _ring of regeneration_ rested. _Best damn investment I ever made._ Especially considering the fact that he hadn't paid a single copper for it.

The ring had been sitting on the mummified finger of some dead Illuskan king, doing the corpse no good. As soon as the sarcophagus had been pulled open the little adventuring band Kagain had been running with had started arguing over the king's treasure, especially the ring, but before they could resolve anything three false walls had swung open and a legion of undead berserkers had come spilling out. In the ensuing chaos Kagain had snatched the ring up and slipped it on, and when he had awakened in a pile of shattered bones sometime later, relatively whole, he was glad that he had. His companions hadn't been so lucky (poor sods,) but on the plus side dividing loot when you're the only survivor is pretty easy. The ring had served him well ever since, helping him regenerate his way out of a lot of nasty situations.

Finding his ax and getting to his feet, Kagain cautiously looked around the tent before poking his head outside. No movement; nothing but smoldering ashes, sprawled out bodies and broken crates. Maybe his companions had moved on. He kind of hoped so. This whole venture had been way too much trouble.

Taking each step slowly and carefully Kagain walked out into the open and began to explore the desolate camp. This was where all the stolen caravan goods had gone. There had to be _something_ of value left. Gradually his scavenging was rewarded, first with a few gems here and there, and then with a half-full cask of ale he was grateful to draw from.

_ Ah, ale. _ It was about bloody time he found some.

A little while later he hit the motherload, in the ashes of the great ruin at the center of the camp. Despite the fire most of the chests were intact, and there were more than enough fine pieces of jewelry to carry. Some even appeared to be enchanted. There was nothing near as valuable looking as the ring on Kagain's finger, and he guessed someone had already picked through the treasure pile (the lack of platinum coins was a dead giveaway, though he found a few near the bottom of a chest.)

Still, he guessed the haul was at least worth enough to live off of for a good long while. Maybe he could even start up a new business, preferably somewhere far away from the bloody coast. As he wrapped up his collection of gems and jewelry in a large pack and secured it to his back he pondered which direction go from here.

Iraebor would probably be best. It was a nice, seedy place where he could pawn this stuff off without anyone asking questions. As he set off towards the east there was still no trace of life in the camp, and no sign of his companions, living or dead.

He didn't particularly care. At least he had finally made a profit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've ever played Neverwinter Nights: Hoards of the Underdark you might remember the music that played during the giant battle scene, with lots of driving wardrums and blaring horns. The feel that music creates was what I was aspiring to when I wrote some of the big battle scenes in this and earlier chapters; or at least it was playing in my head when I wrote them. That and the Crossroads Keep siege theme from Neverwinter Nights 2. Great music.
> 
> And 'Here I come and the hells come with me,' is one of the battle cries from the game Icewind Dale, so the opening quote was a little nod to that.


	28. Duty, Obligation, and Treasure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah. The eternal dilemma of the CRPG player: do you follow the seemingly urgent main quest or flitter off to do a bunch of sidequests while the Darkspawn/Reapers/Jon Irenicus/etc. are on the march?

** 26 – Duty, Obligation and Treasure **

_ "For some reason you almost never hear of a band of adventurers with more than eight members. Is it because the gods have mandated that too many powerful warriors and spellcasters in one place would be dangerous? Or maybe it's the prima donna factor: put too many elite specialists in one place and they simply become incapable of getting along. Nobody knows for sure."  _ – Ribald Barterman _, Old Ribald's Guide to Dungeoneering_

* * *

Once again Ashura found herself in the middle of the inferno, the sprawling bandit camp turning to flame and ash in every direction. This time the hot earth beneath her feet parted and she found herself plunging into the black, searing depths. Somehow she landed on her feet, finding herself in a vast cavern where streams of magma oozed down the distant walls, red as blood. Closer by the floor was smooth and cold, and man-made arches stretched across the chamber, giving it the appearance of a mausoleum.

Beneath each arch rested a statue, detailed and dressed in every style of clothing or armor imaginable. Some were human, others elves or dwarves or orcs, and still others were more exotic and bizarre: a man with a draconic tail and wings, a gnoll, a fire giant…

Several of the statues were broken as well; piles of dust surrounding shattered feet. Ashura's eyes were drawn beyond those to one statue in particular, tall and ominous, with a horned helmet and spikes rising from his baroque armor.

A figure she well recognized. In fact…

Stepping closer she examined the statue's face, looking into its blank and empty eyes. There was something about the figure, about her father's killer, that she had not realized before. He was familiar, and had been all along. She knew this man, it was absolutely certain.

The nose, the ears, the flat features and satisfied smile. Yes, she had definitely seen him somewhere. But where? Who had he been?

Something made her turn around and Ashura let out a gasp. There beneath another arch was an even more familiar sight: her own face. Her statue was clad in chainmail, a short sword in each hand, long hair flowing like a wind-swept banner. And there upon her breast was the symbol again: the leering skull surrounded by swirling droplets. The same symbol her father's killer wore. In fact some form of the sigil marked each and every stone figure.

What did it mean? Was it the sign of some demon prince? Some god?

_ You know the answer. _

Once again Ashura whirled and her heart lurched at a new shock. Another statue stood nearby, just as horrifyingly familiar. Imoen's colorless visage stared back at her, cradling a bow and dressed in fine clothing marked by the haloed skull.

_ Nimbul told you. _

Ashura shook her head. _Not you…_

_ Yes me. You, me, him, Nimbul, and countless others. We are all of us children of Death. And one of us will emerge his favored. _

The statue seemed to come to life, reaching back and pulling an arrow from its quiver as it made a gravely groan. It knocked the arrow and took aim at Ashura's chest. Her swords appeared in her hands but Ashura made no move, watching as the statue slowly drew the bowstring back. She felt a tug from the weapons. She was supposed to fight. She was supposed to strike the statue down.

But she couldn't. She just couldn't. Not Imoen.

Anyone but Imoen.

Imoen's voice chimed in once more, harmonizing with another, deeper voice that Ashura recognized but could not place. _A weakness_ , they chided her. _You wielded fear so well last night. But you too can know terror. Hopelessness. That which was given can be taken away._

The bowstring let out a twang and Ashura awakened with a muffled cry.

Panting and gasping she found herself in a dim, grey space, looking about through bleary eyes. A hand squeezed her shoulder and when Ashura turned she saw Imoen's round face once again. With a gasp she shrank back and Imoen's blue eyes widened with concern. "Shura?" her friend asked. "Shura, what's wrong?"

Shaking her head Ashura took her surroundings in. The interior of a tent, fairly well lit. Imoen's head and arm poked through the flaps, and the bright light behind her showed that it was well into morning if not past noon. "I…" Ashura caught her breath, wincing at the way she'd been cowering from her friend. "It was a bad dream, sorry." She shook her head. "A really bad dream."

Imoen nodded, withdrawing her hand. With a pensive look she slipped back and out of the tent.

_ And she's still mad at me _ , Ashura thought with a deep intake of breath, gathering herself and then her equipment as she slid out of the sleeping-roll. _Ugh._

It was bright outside, well into midmorning. To the north and east faint wisps of smoke were visible high above the trees, rising from the dying embers of Tazok's camp several miles away. What remained of their battered little group had picked through the devastation a bit that night before retreating back to the spot the Flaming Fists had been using as a staging camp. They could probably return and search the ashes at their leisure now, but Ashura doubted that anyone felt inclined, and they were all wary of encountering any stragglers from the Black Talon forces.

Of Lieutenant Vai's unit only three soldiers remained, their leader gone. Kagain seemed to be dead as well, and all of Safana's men had been lost with Credus' betrayal. Grim as the victory had been Vai's soldiers took some comfort in the prize they had carried away. Taugosz Khosann had been found alive in the ruins, and the three Flaming Fists planned to parade their glowering, naked and heavily bound prisoner up to Baldur's Gate as soon as they reached the Coastway.

Ashura certainly wanted to crawl back to civilization. She had slipped a fair amount of gold and jewelry into a bag when they were looting Tazok's tent, and she figured it could go a long way in Beregost. It had been harrowing but they had made it: free from the bandits, gold and gear back in hand, and they had even accomplished Xan and the Harpers' missions in a roundabout way. Her next mission would be to get back on Imoen's good side.

* * *

"Tazok is still out there," Kivan noted, breaking the brief silence they had enjoyed as they stood on the cobblestones of the Coastway, looking north then south. The Flaming Fist soldiers had wasted no time, immediately marching north with their bound and hobbled prisoner between them.

"Yes," Xan agreed grimly. "You mentioned that he was traveling to some sort of mine?"

Garrick nodded. "Along with a shipment of stolen iron, steel and uh…slaves." He frowned a bit at the memory of that.

"And where is this mine?" Xan asked. "It would appear to be the true base of operations for whomever is pulling the strings behind the iron shortage."

Ashura rolled her eyes. "Ugh," she protested. "We all very nearly got killed or enslaved seeking the last 'base of operations' and you're right on to the next?"

"It is my mission," Xan stated simply.

Viconia snorted. "A suicide mission by all appearances."

Xan sighed. "I've thought so too, yes." Still his voice was resigned. "In any case my next step is to find these mines. Where exactly did the Black Talons say they were located?"

Garrick frowned. "They seemed to consider that a big secret, from what I could gather."

Once again Xan let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Surely you have more information than that. You were with these people for half a tenday. With a band of drinking, gambling, bragging thieves, and you didn't hear anything useful?"

"Uh…" Garrick mumbled. "Sorry, guess if I'd know that was my 'mission'…" He used the word derisively, air quotes and all.

Before Xan could sigh a third time Safana interjected. "I know where the mines are."

Xan almost seemed to perk up, or come as close as he could to that state. "You do? Hm. Of course you do."

Safana smirked and nodded.

"And I'm guessing there's a price," Xan added.

There was another sly nod. "I have a 'mission' of my own you see," Safana began. "It's what brought me all the way out to these drab woods. I was hoping the group of men I had put together out here would help me complete the last step, but they all died in that messy battle of yours." She reached into her belt and pulled the scroll case out. "This map-""

Xan waved a hand. "Yes yes. It's a map to whatever it is that you're after and you'll tell us the location of Tazok's mines once we help you find it?"

Safana nodded.

"Well, I _suggest_ you save us the time and simply tell us where the mines are."

Safana's smirk contorted, confusion and frustration crossing her face briefly before being replaced by serenity. "Of course darling," she said with a nod. "The mines are in an ancient dwarven clanhold in the heart of the Cloakwood. The old home of the Orothair dwarves, though I'm not sure exactly where it is in the forest. It was flooded and forgotten, but some Luskan slaver named Davaeorn has reopened the place. He is Tazok's superior." She gave Xan a helpful smile, which evaporated a heartbeat later as the spell wore off. "That was a damn dirty trick," she added as a hand slipped to the knife at her belt.

"Perhaps," Xan admitted. "But I've little time for niceties, especially while Tazok's trail grows cold."

"So I take it I won't be getting your help?" Her head turned towards Ashura and Garrick.

Before Safana could even fix them with a look Ashura spoke up. "I'll help you." After a pause she added: "Find whatever it is on that map. You kept the worst of the bandits off my back and offered us an escape plan. Seems I owe you." Turning to Xan she added: "And that _was_ a damn dirty trick." _Bloody charm spells._

Safana nodded. "Thank you."

"I'm happy to help too," Garrick spoke up. His face went sour when Imoen giggled and gave him a good-natured poke.

"Yeah," Imoen piped up, "of course yer gonna follow Shura."

Safana gave the scrollcase that was looped into her belt a tap. "This map shows the spot where Black Alaric stashed his treasure before being captured by the Amnish fleet. It's a hoard far greater than anything Tazok could gather, and I've been seeking it for quite some time."

Imoen's eyebrows rose. "Black Alaric's treasure! Wow."

"You've heard of such?" Safana asked.

"Well, I never read anything 'bout him having a big stash of treasure, but I've read a lot of stories about Black Alaric of the Nelathner Isles." She laughed. "He was always the villain of course. Think there were at least three different stories where he died in wildly different ways."

"He was real enough," Safana insisted, "and over a thousand years ago he left his treasure hidden somewhere on the coast."

Kivan shook his head. "This man buried some trinkets a thousand years ago, but Tazok is out in the Cloakwood right now." He gestured towards the trees to the west. "We hunt him."

Shar-Teel snorted. "Would much rather hunt treasure myself." Her armor clinked as she crossed her arms over her chest for emphasis. She had recently replaced her scavenged leathers with the sturdy sort of scalemail that the Black Talon mercenaries wore, minus the insignia.

"Good thing it's not your decision," Xan stated curtly.

Though Shar-Teel always seemed to be glaring, the look she gave Xan had never been more dangerous. "There's nothing I hate more than my _decisions_ being made by a spindly, arrogant little man," she growled. "The moment this geas lifts I may start making decisions you find very unpleasant. Like deciding to slice you open from balls to throat."

"Hey now," Imoen protested, slipping between them. "Not like he's deciding stuff for everyone. He's not our leader."

Safana smiled. "Well, follow me and I'll lead you to treasure."

"Like I said," Ashura added, "I'll help you."

Garrick nodded beside her.

Xan shook his head. "It's my duty to pursue the iron shortage to its source. I've been very grateful for your help so far, but I understand the call of treasure."

Ashura shook her head. "Don't try to guilt me. She helped me, I'm helping her. We all have our duties and obligations."

"Though in the end you will no doubt oblige yourself to a share of the treasure."

Ashura shrugged.

"My duties in this matter would seem to be at an end," Ajantis observed. "I was tasked with helping quash the banditry here on the Coastway, and it seems we've done just that." He inclined his head towards Xan. "Still, it feels incomplete without dealing with the bandit leader, and there seem to be greater matters afoot if he is involved with the iron shortage. If you are willing I would be pleased to accompany you on your mission, Sir Xanisteirial."

Xan's eyebrows rose slightly. "That would be…quite helpful," he said, sounding a bit shocked to actually have someone readily volunteer. He looked over at Safana. "I suppose we are parting ways then?"

The Calishite woman nodded. "Alaric's treasure is buried many miles to the south, on the coast."

There was a pained expression on Imoen's face as she looked from person to person. "I'd like ta help you Xan…" she stated weakly.

"It's fine," Xan said.

"I mean, it's what Khalid and Jaheira would have wanted. And Gorion too…" She shared a look with Ashura. "Solving this iron problem and seeing things through and all." She giggled and tapped Ashura on the shoulder. "Not ta guilt you or anything. I'm going where you're going from now on. Stickin' to you like glue. That was a scary time, with you missing and all."

Ashura shrugged. "Maybe after we help Safana…"

"Hm," Xan mused to himself. "If you really mean that…"

"I do," Ashura said with a glare.

Xan raised a hand. "No guilt-flinging. It's just that if you truly wish to find me and help with my mission when you can I can facilitate that."

"Huh?"

Reaching into his bag, Xan removed a small object wrapped in soft grey cloth. He unbundled the cloth to reveal a disc of carved marble, much of its surface covered by polished glass. Delicate, flowing script formed a ring around its outer edge. With great care Xan handed the tiny mirror to Imoen. "A minor scrying device," the elf explained. "It belonged to my unfortunate partner, linked to a mirror of my own and capable of sending messages back to our superiors."

Imoen stared at the tiny object with wide eyes. "Oh wow," she mumbled. "I'm honored. Dunno what to say…"

Xan shrugged. "It would be a waste for me to carry both mirrors into the Cloakwood, where they'd likely end up sitting on my moldering corpse. I understand if in the end you don't want to follow us into the monster-filled forest, but now-"

"Of course I will," Imoen said with a smile and a gentle pat on the elf's shoulder. "As soon as this business with Safana is squared away we'll come find you. Maybe even bring help if we can."

With a careful tilt of his head Xan said: "That would be nice if you manage. In any case it appears we are parting ways now."

"Good," Shar-Teel snarled. "Black Alaric's treasure has a nice ring to it, and I can't wait to get away from this whiney little man, but…" A look of shock came over her face as the next words fell out of her mouth. "…I'm afraid I must decline and follow him into the Cloakwood." Her face tightened up. "Torm's flaming blue balls! Are you fucking kidding me? Even after that runt died?"

Xan nodded very carefully at the woman glaring daggers at him. "It appears the geas binds you most specifically to me. We are still a 'group,' it seems."

"And you'd really rather go chasing after this ogre than Black Alaric's damn _treasure_ hoard?" Shar-Teel growled.

"I've no interest in treasure," Xan stated flatly.

"Nor do I," Ajantis added. "My order forbids me from accumulating more wealth than is absolutely necessary for my mission."

A thoughtful look crossed Shar-Teel's face. She turned towards Kivan. "You. Wild elf. Do you care about treasure?"

"I only seek Tazok," Kivan stated simply.

"Got that impression," Shar-Teel said. "Ha! Well, if I can take any loot I can carry then maybe this little foray to the Cloakwood mines'll be worth it."

Imoen giggled. "You're gonna follow this group of _men_ around?"

Shar-Teel gave her a wolfish grin. "Maybe this way I'll get to see one of these scum die a horrible, horrible death." When Xan gave her a suspicious look she raised her empty hands. "Which I will in no way be responsible for. Just a happy observer."

"Indeed," Xan muttered, turning from the rest. "We'd better get underway if we are to track down the bandit king." Over his shoulder he added: "Good luck with your uhm…treasure hunt."

"Yeah," Shar-Teel said, sauntering up beside Xan and giving him a slap on the bottom that made the slender elf tense and jump "Let's get to it, partner." Ajantis and Kivan filed in behind them and after a few waves they began to head north, in search of a good spot to enter the Cloakwood.

The rest turned south and began to follow the Coastway road. "You coming with us?" Ashura asked the drow woman, who had been silently following along. Viconia was fully wrapped up in her hooded cloak now, and had added a plain black bandana that covered the lower half of her face.

"If none object," Viconia replied.

"Fine by me," Ashura said with a shrug. "Your choice."

There was a smile in Viconia's muffled voice beside her. "I'm most pleased to travel with you at the moment, since we are putting distance between us and those three males who seemed apt to kill me." She glanced back. "I'll miss the big rowdy woman though. She was most amusing."

* * *

"Never thought I'd see so many monsters on one highway journey," Safana complained as they trudged towards the welcoming lights and chimney-smoke of Beregost.

"It was an exciting trip, to say the least," Garrick agreed. Over the past four days traveling south along the Coastway the little band of travelers had been attacked five times: first by a swarm of gibberlings that sprung from the darkness while they were making camp, then by a pack of direwolves that seemed intent on hunting them down. Later the next day an enraged bear crossed their path, and an ambush by the blue-skinned, big-headed goblins that were common in the area followed (Garrick claimed they were called xvarts.)

The strangest encounter of all occurred just north of Beregost, where they were attacked by a berserk ogre wearing a comically large number of assorted belts and girdles over its fur loincloth. Once they had brought the creature down with a combination of arrows, crossbow bolts and slashes the ogre's body had wavered and changed; hips widening, waist narrowing slightly, and breasts sprouting from its muscular chest.

"So the ogre was actually an uh…ogress?" Imoen had gasped as they watched. Still, she was the first to recover from the shock and start pulling the valuable looking belts from the corpse (some were incrusted with jewels.) "Well, at least he didn't morph into a handsome prince after we killed him," she had commented as she worked. "That would've been embarrassing."

As they trudged down familiar streets of Beregost Ashura turned to Safana. "It's unusual, I take it? So many monsters prowling the road?"

"Heavens yes," the older woman responded. "We seemed to attract them like a lodestone."

"Yeah," Imoen agreed. "It's been like that since Shura and I left Candlekeep, and I've been thinking it's not normal. I figure one of us might be cursed or something. Or maybe we both are." She said it half-joking, but Safana gave the pair a serious look, like she was rethinking her choice of companions.

_ Bloody ingrate _ , Ashura thought to herself. Not like they hadn't killed all the creatures handily enough. They were getting rather good at that, and the drow woman Imoen had befriended certainly helped. Much like Xan she seemed to choose spells that hindered the enemy: calling upon her goddess to bring down clouds of darkness, waves of paralysis, summoned creatures or crippling curses. She wasn't bad with her throwing-ring either.

It was late into dusk as they made their way down the wide streets of Beregost, the smells of a dozen cookfires prickling their noses. The familiar sound of jaunty fife-and-drum music greeted them as they neared the Jovial Juggler, and when they pushed past the wooden door and into the smoky common room they found a dance in full swing. The crowd of young people were tapping their feet away upon the nicked hardwood, hand-in-hand. Last time Ashura had been in town she had learned that the dance was called the wereshark (something about the joined hands turning like a fin and swishing about, she guessed,) and it seemed to still be popular.

Passing the dancers, the weary group made their way to the bar and set about negotiating with the innkeep, settling in the end on two spacious and adjacent rooms. As Ashura climbed the stairs, keys in hand, she found Imoen beside her. Silently they entered the first room together, setting their packs down by a pinewood dresser.

"The rooms here only have one bed each," Imoen noted, pointing at the wide feathered bed in the corner. The bedroom was spacious and well-carpeted, with a porcelain tub in one corner half-hidden behind red silk drapes.

"We can make Garrick sleep on the floor," Ashura said with a shrug.

"Or you two can share one of the rooms," Imoen teased. "We can call it the honeymoon suite…"

"Ims," Ashura sighed. "Please. It was just a fling."

Imoen shook her head doubtfully. "Well, whether it was or not I'm still getting my revenge," Imoen said in the same teasing tone, lightly tapping her friend on the arm. "So you might as well have some fun eh? Honeymoon suite's still yours if you want it."

Ashura sighed again. "I thought you might be dead. I thought we were stuck in that camp for the rest of our short lives. I just-"

"I understand. If I were in the same situation I'd've maybe sought some comfort the same way. And I'm not hung up on the stupid boy." She dismissively waved her hand. "Just a little miffed still that you made a promise and…"

"Sorry."

"You should have known I was coming to rescue you. Remember that next time." She gripped Ashura's arm. "Even if I _am_ dead and you're on the other side of Faerun, I'll find some way to you."

Ashura gave her friend a slow nod.

"Just such a shame you had to go and ruin poor, innocent, virginal Garrick."

"Don't think he was a virgin."

Imoen raised an eyebrow. "Okay. Now you just havvve to give me details."

Ashura frowned. "Are you sure-"

"Have to!"

Another shrug. "Well alright. He never said it outright but I'm pretty sure him and Silke…"

"Oh! I should have known."

"I think she taught him some tricks."

"Probably housetrained him too. Ha! From 'Mistress Silke' to 'Mistress Ashura.' Tricks huh?"

"Well…"

A little while later the two friends descended the stairs, both laughing away. "Just promise me you won't pointedly call him 'little Garrick' alright?"

"In that fancy Silke Rosena voice?" Imoen asked.

"Seems like something you would do."

"Well, I promise I won't! Confidential information and all."

They found that the rest of their little group had settled in to the common room. Viconia and Garrick sat at a table in the coziest corner available, the dark elf keeping her mask and hood tight about herself with her back to the wall while the young man enthusiastically dug at a plate of steaming mutton and boiled potatoes.

Safana was at the bar, perched on a stool and leaning casually against the wood with her legs crossed. Ashura's eyes widened when she noticed the elven man on the stool next to the Calishite woman. He had his back turned, but the slim figure, long auburn hair and casual slouch was familiar, not to mention the purple dye in his woolen shirt. Imoen recognized him too, and the pair took a direct path to the bar.

As they drew near Ashura could hear the swaggering cadence in the elven man's voice, and knew for sure who it was. A small world, but then again if the elf were in Beregost what other tavern would he go to?

"A treasure hunt you say?" Coran asked, tracing a finger round and round the lip of a wine-cup. "Nothing would delight me more than seeking out some pirate booty. Why, I'd go after it this very eve if possible."

"Har har," Safana retorted, taking on the mock-tones of a stereotypical pirate before switching to her more sultry voice. "Now there's a pun I've simply _never_ heard before."

"A pun? Why m'lady, whatever are you suggesting?"

_ Ugh. How bloody predictable _ . Stepping right up behind the elf Ashura gave him a firm tap on the back. When he turned his usual self-satisfied smirk was there on his lips, but it instantly evaporated as his almond eyes widened.

"Nina!" Coran shouted, leaping off the stool and pressing his hands to Ashura's shoulders. "You're alive!" It was good to see the swagger melt for the moment, some honest emotion crossing the elf's face.


	29. Dance of the Living

_ "In these halls we living mourn the dead by dancing twice as hard." _ – Revelmistress Creda Lyss, _Lliiran Sermons_

* * *

"After the battle I lost hope," Coran admitted, his hand still on Ashura's shoulders. "So many friends dead and…" He winced and shook his head, looking away.

"Don't worry about it," Ashura replied. She gave his hand a pat.

"I should have-" Coran began.

"-tried to help rescue her?" Imoen finished for him with her arms crossed. "Yup. I managed to rescue her and Garrick both, no thanks to you."

Ashura rolled her eyes and gave her friend a sideways look. "Ims. Don't." Cutting his loses and getting the hell out of the woods after the caravan got sacked was hardly something she'd hold against the elf. Or anyone else really. It's what she would have done in his place. Turning back to Coran she said: "Just glad to see you alive." She smiled a bit. "Guess we have some catching up to do."

"Indeed," Coran agreed cheerfully, gesturing at a barstool. "The least I can do is buy you a drink."

"Or three," Imoen put in.

"Sure, let's make it three," Coran said with a playful shrug. "I'm in the mood to celebrate."

Ashura snorted. "Aren't you always?"

"Aye."

"How about the Westgate Ruby Wine?" Imoen asked, taking a nearby stool and pointing at a slate board where the inn's offerings and prices were marked in chalk. The Ruby Wine was the most expensive item on the list, and the suggestion had the desired effect on Coran.

He winced.

Ashura chuckled. "Ale's just fine for me."

"Me too I 'spose," Imoen said in a teasing tone. "Do like that halfling-brewed stuff."

Coran tried his best to hide his relief as he pulled out a few copper coins and purchased the first round of ale for the pair.

"You can always buy me some Ruby Wine darling," Safana interjected. "If you truly wish."

Coran chuckled. "Perhaps we could buy it with that pirate treasure. Which I'll be more than happy to help you retrieve!"

"Perhaps," Safana agreed with a sly smile.

The barkeep slid a pint of Suz-Ale to Ashura and one of Luiren's Best to Imoen, and soon stories and drinks were flowing.

When they eventually got to the part about old Captain Kagain's fate Coran lifted his winecup and proposed a toast to the fallen. There was a fond look of remembrance on his face as the three held their drinks aloft. "To Kagain," Coran began, "And Eddard, Chera, Branwen, Vexila, Amili, Pip, Lorny and Vekar. Good friends and allies all."

There were a couple of lovers in that list as well, by Ashura's reckoning.

"Yeah," Imoen added. "And to Khalid and Jaheira. Good friends, allies, and foster parents in the brief time we knew 'em."

"And Gorion Adrian," Ashura said, realizing that was the name she missed most of all. "May they all be judged true upon the Fugue Plane." Her face had tightened when the name came to her, memories that had been buried under a whirlwind of events rising to the surface. Still, the little blessing gave her comfort. She knew the old sage had been judged true. Knew that right now her father had his nose buried deep in one of Oghma's books.

"Aye," Coran was saying. "And if they aren’t may they all twist the Night Serpent into knots. A toast to the fallen!" The cup and glasses clinked.

"Ha!" Imoen exclaimed after her sip. "Kagain would give that old snake some fierce indigestion."

"And Branwen would call one of those hammers down on her nose," Ashura added.

They were close to ordering their second round of drinks when Garrick strode over, having just finished his meal and noticed the gathering at the bar. He clasped Coran's arm in greeting, and in response the elf grabbed him and ruffled his hair, much to Garrick's annoyance. "Hey there lad!" Coran shouted. "Glad you survived as well. Imoen just told me all about it."

"Why does everyone call me 'lad' or 'boy'" Garrick complained when he'd finally pulled back, rubbing his head and straightening his hair. "I'll have seen twenty-two winters in a few months."

"And the term will still fit," Coran said with a smirk.

"Yeah it will," Ashura agreed with a sip of her ale and a smile at the lad.

"Be glad for the boyish good looks," Coran went on. "Believe it or not I'm fairly young by elven standards, but people sometimes treat me like I'm pushing two centuries. Too much drink and laughter, I suppose." To prove his point he chuckled and took a long sip of wine.

Once he set his clay cup down Coran noticed the cloaked and veiled figure that had slipped in behind Garrick. "And who might this be?" he asked, peering at the gap that revealed Viconia's violet eyes. "Judging by your eyes there must be staggering beauty beneath those veils. I'm guessing that's why you wear them? Otherwise your path would forever be obstructed by dumbfounded men."

Ashura rolled her eyes and threw back another gulp of ale. _Gods_. Every time she was starting to enjoy Coran's company he had to go and remind her what a relentlessly single-minded little creature he was.

"You guess correctly, male," Viconia stated sarcastically. "But I have deemed you worthy of my full beauty. Hopefully it will render you dumb and _silent_." She turned her head briefly, making sure that the barkeep wasn't nearby, then pulled her veil aside and faced Coran.

The wood elf's eyes widened a bit, but the smug grin returned to his face before Viconia had slipped the mask back in place. "My my," Coran said. "An exotic beauty indeed."

Viconia cocked her head. "Your reaction is surprising," she admitted. "The last two _darthiir_ I encountered seemed ready to kill me."

Coran shrugged a bit. "I owe no allegiance to any _tel-quessir_ nation. I'm just a vagabond. And if you're up here in the company of humans I'm guessing you are as well. You're friends with these folks?" He gestured towards Ashura, Garrick and Imoen.

Imoen instantly placed a hand on Viconia's shoulder, making the dark elf flinch slightly. "Yeah, she's with me," she said cheerfully.

Coran smiled. "Good enough for me. I suppose you expect me to order you a drink as well?"

It was a joke, but Viconia inclined her head. "Of course."

"Uh…" Coran stammered.

"The finest wine they have," the dark elf added with a dismissive gesture of her hand. "Get on it, male."

Coran turned towards the bar with a defeated look on his face and Ashura chuckled, fishing a silver coin out of her purse to pay for the Westgate Ruby. "This one's on me," she said, much to Viconia's puzzlement.

In the end Ashura was the one who bought the third round of drinks as well, and after that Coran persuaded her to follow him to the dance floor. With his slender hand in hers the elf led her through the steps of the Wereshark, cutting fins and swinging hips and all.

There was a step in the dance where they pranced along back-to-back, bodies brushing together and heads bobbing like a wave. The next step swung them together in a rush, many a partner laughing as the lead caught them, bodies pivoting together. Through it all Coran was nimble and quick, that sly grin never leaving his face, though when the jaunty music tapered off into a gentle waltz Ashura noticed that he was panting just a little.

"Guess this is the breather," Ashura whispered.

Coran nodded. "And for that I am most grateful."

She chuckled. "I could lead us through the next fast dance if you like. Think I know the steps now."

Coran's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Oh, I never object to a lady taking the lead. I won't even say 'please be gentle.' A few scratches really make a night worth remembering."

Rolling her eyes, Ashura muttered: "Always with the innuendo. Are you ever capable of just having a normal conversation?"

"Certainly, but with a beautiful woman swinging along in my arms normal words simply cannot suffice."

_ Well that answers my question.  _ It was almost sad really. The elf just didn't seem to know _how_ to talk with her without using a line.

* * *

Taking a long draw of Luiren's Best, Imoen eyed Garrick over the rim of her glass. The young man had a slightly pensive look on his face, his eyes on the dance floor, where Coran was slowly spinning Ashura. "Jealous huh?" she asked. Garrick had asked her to dance a little while ago, but she'd declined.

To Imoen's surprise the bard smiled sheepishly and shrugged. He turned and looked into her eyes. "Honestly I don't know how I feel," Garrick admitted with a chuckle. "After all the stuff that's happened the past few tendays. It would be nice to just have some time to catch my breath."

"Dunno if we'll get too much of that," Imoen replied. "Seems like Safana wants to go straight to the coast and after her treasure first thing in the morning."

"At the rate you're going you'll probably be too hungover for that," Garrick pointed out.

"Yup!" At that Imoen threw her mug back again and downed the rest of her ale. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve before trying and failing to hold back a loud belch, followed by a fit of giggling. Once she had recovered she spoke up again. "In the adventure stories there's usually a line or two saying 'and the party rested for a month between adventures.' That'd be sweet. 'Course I always figured there was more they did in that month than just laying around in bed. Maybe lots of shopping."

"And drinking and dancing."

"And boinking!" Imoen said with a wicked grin and a playful punch to Garrick's shoulder.

He looked away bashfully, but she was having none of that. "Speaking of which," Imoen went on, "you aught to go cut in." She pointed at the dance floor. "Before that elf finishes sweeping her off her feet."

Garrick let out a 'hmph' and said nothing more for a while. Eventually the music shifted, fifes dropping away as a steady drumroll played, _rat-a-tat-tat_ , the pace increasing by gradual increments. It was a cue for the dancers, who broke apart and lined up, men and women on opposite sides of the floor.

With a smile Garrick rose to his feet. "No 'cutting in,' but I think I'll dance a round or two." He turned to Imoen and offered his hand. "Come on. You won't have to dance with me."

"Aww," Imoen said, wobbling as she stood. "Don't think I'm sour on you or anything just 'cause I turned down a dance. You sensitive little artist you." She took his hand and they marched quickly towards the open floor, separating and lining up. Imoen knew this dance as well: Shifting Alliances. It had a thousand variations, from a graceful and elegant ballroom dance to a faster, more raucous version that made barn walls shake, but the main theme was that at each musical cue you swung in a circle and wound up with a new partner.

As the drum picked up and fifes broke in, the line of men and the line of women locked hands and moved in unison across the floor, breaking into pairs the moment they reached each other. Hands locked together, each couple glided along, taking their own path and pace as the music lulled slightly, but when it picked up again they locked arms and spun. When the fife players hit a crescendo each couple separated and rushed into the arms of the nearest available partner, hands catching as they glided once again.

It went on like that, gliding and spinning, gliding and spinning, until Imoen was dizzy and disoriented. By the time the music finally slowed and the dancers did as well Imoen found herself hand in hand with a freckled farmhand. Glancing away from her dancing partner she noticed that Ashura and Garrick were trotting along nearby, murmuring something to each other as they went.

_ 'No cutting in' huh? _ she thought with a smirk, very much doubting that they had found one another on the floor by pure accident. A little while later when Imoen managed to disengage herself from the farmboy and wobble back to her table with a fresh pint of ale in hand she noticed that Garrick and Ashura where still dancing. Ashura had taken the lead too, swinging him around a bit.

Plopping down in her seat, Imoen laughed and took another drink. "'Just a fling' she says. Pshaw!"

"It appears your companion has stolen your male," Viconia observed. "A grave insult. Something must be done."

"Nah," Imoen waved a dismissive hand. "Wasn't my male. He's a dope anyways. Look'it the way he's just letting her lead him around."

The dark elf raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that what males are meant to do?"

Imoen shook her head, swaying. "Not up here it's not. We like our men tough and take-charge. Dashing and a little dangerous. Passionate and decisive!" She giggled. "Or maybe I've just read too many romance stories."

"Definitely," Viconia agreed before lowering her veil and taking a sip of her wine. "He's pleasing to the eye," she eventually said, watching Garrick get dipped and swung around by Ashura. "But he certainly seems a fool. And there are plenty other males available, such as the one you were dancing with a moment ago. Strong and vigorous looking. You should seize one of them, and forget that little _iblith_."

"Um…that's not how it…" Imoen stammered, then laughed again. "Well, maybe that's how it _does_ work for some people, but not me. I'm not just gonna go flirt with some farmhand just because. Let alone 'seize' one. Yick! Just gonna have to wait for my dashing knight to come along. Shame Garrick wasn't it. He _is_ pretty. And he wrote the sweetest ballad to me once."

"I cannot say I care much for your surface 'knights,'" Viconia stated tersely. "The only one I've met so far was ready to let me hang."

Imoen laughed. "'Spose I need to make it a mission o'mine to teach you not to take stuff literally. Or at least show ya how to joke like a surfacer. By 'knight' I mean some uh…" She fumbled a bit for words and took another drink. "A big sexy fellow who'll swing in and take care of stuff. Dunno why us surface humans associate that with guys in platemail armor. Maybe 'cause the armor is expensive and it means the guy is making some effort?"

Viconia shrugged. By now Ashura and Garrick had left the dance floor, and she had her arm around him, guiding him towards the bar. "Your eyes are still fixed on them," Viconia noted. "Perhaps it is simply the sting of the insult? She could at least offer to share the male."

Imoen gagged. "Yuck! Yick! No way. Glad she hasn't!"

Viconia just gave her a puzzled look.

"Uh." Imoen pursed her lips, thinking. "The little bard's ego's prolly puffed up enough as is." She chuckled. "Sharing? Really? I've always read that women were in charge in drow society, but are you sure? Maybe the guys have just conspired to laze about while the women do all the work and fight over them."

Viconia let out a brief, mirthful laugh. "The fact that we could kill any male who displeased us at our leisure contradicts your theory." She leaned back in her chair, and though it was hard to tell with the mask Imoen got the feeling that the drow was reminiscing about the good old days. An involuntary shiver ran down her spine.

"Provided the male belonged to you or a female sufficiently low in station to not protest, that is," Viconia added, warming to the subject. "But for a time, being in the DiVir family afforded me a very high station. It was most enjoyable."

Viconia sighed, and Imoen shook her head, wondering if the drow was oblivious to her discomfort or reveling in it. Probably the later. She was starting to get the impression that Viconia's favorite pastime was messing with people.

* * *

"Forest goblins," Kivan stated.

As Xan's hand shot to the hilt of his moonblade he turned to the elven ranger. "Where and how many-" he began, but by then the thick green leaves above were rustling and little bodies were descending on vine ropes, spears leading the way.

Tasoli, some people called the creatures, but 'forest goblin' summed it up well enough; slender little humanoids with green skin and goblinoid features that hunted from treetops. They were naked save for the coarse green fur that covered their spindly bodies, the brown hair atop their heads all matted tangles, and their large yellow eyes reminded Xan of hunting cats.

The creatures were poorly armed, wielding arrows and spears tipped with stone, but they fought fierily enough. For a moment the four companions were hemmed in, back to back and desperately repelling spear-thrusts from the gibbering, lightning-quick creatures, several arrows bouncing off a protective arcane shield that Xan had hastily called up.

Pitched moments of terror turned to predictable slaughter once Xan was finally able to cast his next spell: a wave that shimmered through the air and left the goblins peering around in a daze when it passed. Some of the creatures turned and ran, aimless rather than fearful, and others lashed out at their companions or fell over laughing.

No matter how the spell effected them the goblins made easy targets one and all. _What would they do without me?_ Xan found himself wondering as he passively watched the goblins fall to arrows and sword-strokes. _Probably die._

In moments Shar-Teel was burying her sword in the last moving creature and giving it a furious stomp. Once she caught her breath she turned to Kivan and let out a fierce laugh. "Ha!" she scoffed. "Some ranger you are, elf. Didn't spot the damn things 'till they were on top of us."

"They hid well," Kivan simply stated.

"They did, and it's your job to spot things that hide 'well,'" Shar-Teel went on. "What good's a fucking ranger if you can't even do that?"

Ajantis stepped between them. "We triumphed over the enemy," he stated. "And we'll exercise more caution in the future. Alright?"

"Bah," Shar-Teel growled. She pointed a blood-soaked hand past the man. "Keep those eyes peeled, elf. That's all I'm saying. This was just goblins, but there are worse things in these woods. Feral gnomes with nasty magic tricks, carnivorous trees, giant spiders and satyr barbarians, to name a few." Turning, she absentmindedly kicked one of the corpses. "Hopefully they have better loot too. Worthless little buggers."

"This one had a cloak, at least," Ajantis pointed out, peeling a fine piece of black wool off the shoulders of a dead goblin, apparently the only creature that was clothed or adorned in any way, and probably their leader.

Shar-Teel instantly snatched it from his hands. "Might sell for something at least. A cloak in the Cloakwood. Guess the gods have a sense of humor."

In moments they regrouped and continued down the forest path, their eyes on the trees.

* * *

With heavy lids and a throbbing head Ashura finally came to, blinking at the morning light. _Ugh. Somebody should close those curtains._ She made a move to do so herself and instantly regretted it, every motion sending spikes through her skull. The movement also made her vaguely aware that there was someone else in the bed with her. And that she was naked.

In her blurry vision she noticed long auburn hair. _Huh? Coran?_ She had fuzzy memories of dancing with the elf the night before. A lot of laughter and even more innuendo. _Ugh. Did I..?_

Thankfully when her eyes cleared a bit she realized that the hair belonged to a fully clothed Imoen. She was stretched out across the bed with her boots dangling off the edge, on top of the sheets. It looked like the girl had swan-dived onto the bed and then promptly passed out, her head turned to the side, mouth open over a little puddle of drool. When Ashura stirred a bit more and sat up Imoen didn't budge.

Cupping her hands against her forehead Ashura groaned a little. "Ugh. What happened?"

"Well," Garrick's voice answered her from somewhere on the other side of the room, "you two were laughing and saying some incoherent stuff about 'the honeymoon suite.' And Imoen kept saying something about dealing with me the 'Drow way.' Must admit I was a little scared."

Blinking, Ashura looked over and saw that the young man was standing by the washbasin and running a comb through his hair, dressed and wide awake. There was a bedroll spread out on the carpet near his feet.

"Then you dragged me up here," Garrick went on, "and promptly passed out. Well, she did first. Then you crawled under the covers."

"Oh," Ashura muttered. "Uh. Sorry."

Garrick laughed and looked over at her. "It's fine. Just another campout, like always." He cringed and averted his eyes when she pushed the sheets back and wobbled off the bed and onto her feet.

"Nothing you haven't seen before," Ashura grumbled as she stomped over to Garrick's side and started splashing water on her face.

"Uh…true I guess," the bard stammered, his back still turned, though a sidelong glance showed Ashura that he seemed to be peaking over his shoulder.

"Well," Imoen spoke up from the bed, running her fingers through ruffled hair, "I fully expect you to avert your eyes when I take _my_ turn with the washing bowl."

"Urm, of course my lady," Garrick stammered some more. "I mean… Bah. I'll just go get some morningfeast while they're still serving it." He promptly excused himself, blushing profusely.

Thankfully they were still serving morningfeast in the taproom when Ashura finally managed to stumble down herself. Some greasy sausage, an omelet and strong tea proved the perfect thing to clear the cobwebs out of her head as her little band slowly gathered around the table. Coran was there, eyes always following Safana as they ate and planned. It seemed he had attached himself to their party once more, with the woman's hearty approval. "Another strong man for our little treasure hunt would be most welcome," she explained.

"Too bad you picked a spindly little elf then," Imoen pointed out.

"I'm sure he's very strong where it counts," Safana purred.

"I'd be most pleased to show you," Coran stated. "All my strengths that is."

_ Funny _ . It seemed Coran's quest for 'pirate booty' wasn't going very well. Ashura was beginning to think that despite Safana's constant come-hither tone and talk of 'big strong men' that she actually wasn't interested in any of her male pets sexually. Perhaps she just saw them as a means to a very different end.

A strange woman, as Garrick often pointed out.

After morningfeast and tea came shopping. First they traded in some gems at Thunderhammers for a fine suit of chainmail, fitted specially for Ashura. The gems also afforded them some magical weapons: a runemarked bow for Imoen and enchanted arrows and crossbow bolts, along with an extra bandoleer of throwing daggers for Safana.

After that they attempted to outfit Imoen for the journey. She had given up on armor altogether (even light leathers conferred some risk of interfering with spells,) but they managed to find some enchanted bracers for her at the shop in Feldpost's Inn that would offer some protection, along with some sturdy woolen shirts and trousers. Naturally she picked out various shades of violet.

The last stop was the apothecary at the Song of the Morning Temple, where they purchased a few healing potions and magically enhanced antidotes. Ashura quietly took one of the acolytes aside and paid for a few additional potions and herbal mixtures (just in case.) She was a little grateful that Imoen didn't tease, if she had noticed.

Armed, armored and loaded down with provisions, the small band of treasure-hunters left Beregost a little after noon, taking a path through fields of green-gold wheat to the west. As the sun beat down through an open sky the fields and farmsteads were gradually replaced by patches of trees and eventually light forest.

A few hours into the journey the well-beaten western road took the party past a squat, solid little fortress with a wooden sign in the dirt out front that read 'High Hedge.' Garrick explained that it was the home of the 'big wizard in town.' Beyond there the woods grew wilder.

Forest was giving way to stony scrubland when they finally decided that the shadows had grown too long and searched out a suitable spot to camp for the night. An hour later they found the perfect place beneath a weathered overhang that faced east, sheltered from the brutal winds that sometimes rolled off the Sea of Swords.

As the sun disappeared behind the low crags a campfire grew, and Imoen placed a pot of water and some assorted provisions above the flames, stirring up a crude stew. She was getting rather good at that, though her first experiments on the road had led to some burned pots. While supper simmered Viconia happily divested herself of her mask and hood, long white hair spilling out freely in the dimming light, and Coran made his predictable comments about the darkness only enhancing the drow's 'exotic and sensuous features,' from his spot beside Safana.

"The darkness serves your features even better, _wael_ ," Viconia hissed. "Pitch and impenetrable black would be a welcome improvement over your hideous visage."

Coran's lips made a lemon-tasting pout, but his eyes seemed to be laughing. He turned to Safana. "Ah, she wounds me so."

Smiling, Safana traced a fingertip along Coran's sharp cheekbone. "Well I find nothing objectionable about your 'visage' dear."

"Even the way that visage is always glued to your anatomy?" Viconia asked. "Your male is quite impertinent. I would teach him a lesson if he were mine."

Safana rolled her shoulders. Her version of a shrug, though every time Ashura saw it she was reminded of a cat stretching. "He seems a perfectly docile gentleman to me. So long as he looks but does not touch." She withdrew her fingertip.

As Safana turned away and began to sharpen one of her throwing knives the look on Coran's face seemed to grow genuinely sour.

Ashura followed the other woman's cue and pulled out her own dagger, carefully drawing the edge across a sharpening stone as the firelight danced off the steel. Caring for her blades in the evening was a habit she had developed at the beginning of her journey, sitting in front of campfires while Jaheira regaled them with advice on how to survive, make do and flourish in the wilderness. She missed those early days now; missed the stern unyielding woman who had served very briefly as their foster mother.

Those nights she had always sat in silence, honing her swords, but she had listened. She knew how to find fresh water, what kinds of bark were strongest and best woven into a container or rope, and what rocks to pick for a firepit. When Jaheira had pointed out edible plants she had taken note, or broken off a leaf and chewed.

Now her swords needed far less care: any enchanted weapon would always keep its edge. Finishing with her dagger, with the evening stew already put away and the camp fallen silent, Ashura found her hands frustratingly idle. She missed those early days on the road; the campfire chatter and Imoen grousing when Jaheira tasked them with almost everything. It had been good for them too. Setting up and breaking camp was now second nature.

Turning to Garrick, Ashura broke the silence. "Haven't heard you play a song in while," she noted.

"Oh yeah!" Imoen agreed. "Play us a song."

Garrick rubbed the back of his neck. "Haven't felt like it I guess," he admitted. "The bandits kind of soured me on taking requests."

"Oh. Sorry," Ashura said. She reached over and gave Garrick's shoulder a squeeze. "You're not our musical servant or anything."

Garrick shook his head a little and pulled his harp from its case. "No, but I do need practice." He strummed out a few low, lazy notes. After a pause more followed; a soft, melancholy tune that Ashura guessed was improvised. As his fingers danced he looked over at Imoen. "How about you play the bard?" he asked.

"Me?" Imoen looked taken aback. "You know I can't sing!"

Garrick chuckled. "You're not as bad as you think. But I was thinking more like a story. I've been wanting to hear of Black Alaric."

"Oh I see," Imoen said with a laugh. "Hitting me up for material eh?"

"Exxxactly," Garrick admitted dramatically. "T'would be criminal of me to travel with two ladies from Candlekeep and _not_ hit them up for stories."

"And he knows I'm a terrible storyteller," Ashura said with a chuckle.

"I wouldn't say-"

She poked Garrick. "You know I am. Stuff the compliments."

"Okay, okay. You're a terrible storyteller." He turned to Imoen. "So?" The meandering tune went on.

Imoen looked around at the rest of her companions, and when no one objected she pursed her lips and thought. "Hmm. Okay. How 'bout the tale of Black Alaric, Selia Fairsail, and the Hunt for the Ship of the Damned…"

Garrick chuckled. "Ooo. A campfire ghost-story! Perfect!"

With a smile she began her tale.

* * *

By the time Imoen stood and took a few steps from the dozing camp, stories told and songs long done, heavy grey clouds had rolled in from the coast and veiled the moon and stars. She could see the dark landscape well enough; the rustling trees and the sand and the rock-faces were outlined in faint orange by her infravision. Of course without the moon or stars in sight it was pure guesswork to know when to end her watch.

_ End it when you're bored _ , was her first impulse, but of course she was well into boredom within minutes. She supposed the best idea was to just wait until she was really really tired. Coran had volunteered for the second watch, with a comment about how he hardly needed 'Any rest,' and a sly look at Safana that went ignored.

_ Well, I'll at least give him a few hours. Walk till I start yawning _ . It was an easy watch at least, with their backs to the big rock and open land in front. She just had to pace from one side of the rockface to the other in a semi-circle, and if anything was out there she'd see it bright and red. _No sneakin' up on Imoen._

Five times up and down her rout and one yawn later, Imoen stopped, hand going to her quiver. She peered into the dim orange and saw the same landscape she'd been seeing, but something was off. She bit her lip.

The rustling. That was it.

There was always wind rolling off the coast and the woods had been sighing most of the night, but she was hearing rustling from somewhere _lower_. Bushes and shifting branches. Something was moving out there.

She knocked an arrow. _Yeah_ , she could see rattling motion in the low branches, but there was nothing glowing. No one. Or at least no heat.

"Oh shit!" she hissed, realization coming at the same time that the undergrowth was pushed aside and over a dozen figures burst into view, all the same pale orange color as the cold stones and trees around them. Some swayed like drunks, shambling from foot to foot as they slowly crossed the open sand and pebbles between the forest and the camp. Others lurched mechanically forward, limbs jerking like those of puppets. There was a faint, pinprick glow in each and every eye socket though: uniform wisps of ghostlight.

Of course there was no heat! This was an army of the dead.


	30. Dance of the Dead

_ "And lo, Selia recoiled in horror as the waves parted and the sea gave up its dead. Bloated and mangled, the abominations surged forth like the tide."  _ -Shandreth of Highmoon, _Black Alaric and the Ship of the Damned_

* * *

With a quick twang Imoen's bow sent an arrow whistling towards the nearest walking corpse, striking it square in the chest with a meaty thump. The creature seemed to have been a man once; tall and thickly muscled. Now it was a pale, ragged thing, crusted black gunk streaking its torn body under clothes that were worn down to a few ragged strips. Ribs gleamed through open gashes in its torso, and the creature's jaw was gone; beneath its upper lip hung a mess of mangled, rusty black and a long, limp tongue.

Imoen's second arrow flew an instant after the first, again striking true and burying the shaft halfway into the creature's torso. The walking corpse didn't even seem to slow or notice. The feathered shafts just wobbling uselessly as the dead thing shambled closer. Other creatures were advancing more quickly, dry bones clicking as the walking skeletons rushed headlong towards the camp, unencumbered by rotting flesh.

Knocking a third arrow Imoen thought through the spells she had ready, her mind racing. None of her illusions would work on the dead, would they? And what good was a spell of accuracy when arrows are useless? "Help!" Imoen shouted over her shoulder as she took a few frantic steps back from the advancing undead. "Help! Alarm! We-"

" _Fall_ ," a voice commanded, echoing through her head as much as through the branches. Imoen's bow and arrow separated and clattered to the dirt as she tumbled forward, suddenly so limp that she hardly noticed when the ground rushed up and smacked her chest.

It only took her a moment to shake life back into her limbs, press her hands against the earth and try to push back up, but by then the walking dead were all around her. The dancing bones rushed by, clattering as they passed and holding rusty weapons high, but some of the heavier creatures lingered and bent closer. Before she could think to rush to her feet she felt cold, clammy hands grasp both of her arms in a death-grip. She squirmed and kicked but the hands held fast, twisting her arms a bit behind her back and forcing her upright between a pair of walking corpses.

A man was approaching from the darkness, the only visible source of heat. He was young but looked almost as ragged as some of the creatures around him; his tangled auburn hair sticking out in every direction, and rust streaked the chainmail that hung from his gaunt body. From his belt hung something more ornate: a golden warhammer. Tufts of uneven hair stuck out from his cheeks in the beginnings of an unchecked beard, and his eyes were wide with manic joy. Those big, gleaming eyes seemed to be fixed on Imoen and Imoen alone. She shivered.

"Oh mother!" the man exclaimed in a sing-song voice as he approached. "It's really truly you!" Behind her Imoen could hear cracking sounds along with the clang of steel. She guessed that the skeletons had reached the camp, and it sounded like her friends were fighting back.

The strange man ignored the battle, instead turning his back and gesturing towards the woods. With a lurch the two corpses that held Imoen's arms propelled her forward, and she bobbed along between them, kicking and twisting as they followed the madman. He led them between brambles and low branches that scratched at Imoen's face as she struggled.

"Let me go!" she managed to shout as she was pulled along. "Somebody help! Help me!" Her cries quickly turned into coughs as the stench of the rotting corpses overwhelmed her. The smell was thick enough to taste, and soon it was all she could do to keep from retching, her body growing slack and her feet furrowing the earth as she was dragged along.

Through all of this the madman in the rusted armor ignored her cries and her coughs, gleefully marching along the forest path and talking all the while. "You look like you haven't aged a day," he exclaimed. "In fact, you look a bit younger than before. Just like in the old days. The good days. Oh mother! My dear, sweet mother! Such a grand reunion we're in for this night!"

Shaking herself a bit, Imoen found her voice again. "I'm not your bloody mother, you half-wit thrice-dumb snot-for-brains! Tell your damn zombies to let me go!"

"Zom-whats?" the madman asked over his shoulder, his tone mildly confused but unperturbed. To Imoen's horror there was more creaking and crackling in the forest all around them. There seemed to be skeletons everywhere along the path, holding ancient weapons against their shoulders like some perversion of an honor guard.

"Zom-bies." Imoen snarled. "The fucking monsters that are holding me! That's what they are. Zombies. Reanimated corpses. Undead abominations. Tell them to let me go!"

"Why mum, this is our family!" the madman explained. "Don't you recognize old brother Thurm?" He pointed at the shambling corpse that was holding Imoen's right arm; the same one she had shot twice. Her arrows still protruded from his chest, bobbing as uselessly as ever.

"Or aunty Jerra over there?" he asked, gesturing at the corpse beside him: a grey woman with stringy tufts of colorless hair, lurching along in a rotting peasant's dress. "Or your little niece Bethris?" He pointed again and Imoen cringed and looked away from the pale, shambling waif that had once been a farm-girl. "Why, even daddy's here!" the madman proclaimed, pointing at an inhumanly bloated corpse that seemed to waddle as it walked. "Your dear husband!"

"That's not your dad," Imoen stated in a scolding tone. "And your mother _demands_ that you knock this zombie nonsense off this instant. Why…real brother Thurm would be ashamed!" In the forest behind them she could still hear brittle old bones cracking, along with muffled shouts and Viconia's voice carrying above it all, calling upon her goddess.

The madman let out a sigh. "Oh mum," he said in a deflated tone. "Seems there's something wrong with your memory. Just like the others." He puffed himself up and started marching down the path again. "Well, I managed to fix them, and I'll do the same with you!"

A few moments more and branches parted as Imoen was shoved through into a small field dominated by a ring of standing stones. The cold, meaty hands dragged her ever onward, under a stone arch towards the center of the ring where a long slab rested, half-buried in the earth. Something dark stained the center of the slab.

Imoen's heart leapt to her throat as she guessed at the source of the stain and she immediately started struggling again, but she couldn't budge the cold limbs that held her. This was some ancient circle of power, and that was a sacrificial altar in the middle! _Oh gods!_

Struggling wasn't going to work. One slow step at a time she was being dragged to the circle, and now she could see four rusty iron manacles attached to chains at the corners of the slab. It was easy enough to guess how those were put to use, and how the madman 'fixed' each member of his family. Slowing her struggles, Imoen tried to stop and think.

If they were going to lock her wrists into those things there would be a moment when the zombies had to let her go. Just for a blink perhaps, but she could be quick. She took a deep breath, cool night air and rotting stench and all. The second the things let go…

But they never quite gave her the chance. On some unheard cue the zombies whirled her around and violently slammed her onto the slab, the back of her head cracking against the stone as the air was punched from her lungs. Before she could get her breath back one ring of iron locked into place around her left wrist, then the other snapped around her right. By then she was kicking and squirming again, and the madman was holding one of the bindings that was probably meant to trap an ankle.

He fumbled with it a moment, more clumsy than the zombies, then looked over his shoulder. The commotion from the woods was just growing and growing, all splintering bones and ringing steel. _Shura's coming_ , Imoen thought with relief. _Any moment now_.

The madman shook his head. "Oh mum," he muttered. "They're getting close to our family. Can't have that. No no no." He pulled his warhammer free, and there was a faint buzzing in the air accompanied by the smell of ozone. "You stay right there mum. I'll deal with them."

But Imoen wasn't about to wait. As the madman turned his back to her she stretched her arms as much as she could. The bindings held her to the slab but there was plenty of room to stretch the chains. And there had be a key to release the manacles after the sacrifice was made…

_ Yes! There!  _ She could see the key, hanging from a thong at the madman's belt. He was out of reach now, but…

Weaving her fingers, Imoen began to whisper a few arcane syllables, her words drowned out by the shouts and the clang of battle.

* * *

With a satisfying crunch the skeleton in front of Ashura crumbled, but two more swept in to take its place. She had to twist aside fast to avoid the downward sweep of a rusty axe, batting away a hack from the second creature's sword as she moved. The mindless things made no pretense at fencing; just slashed and lunged like children with toy weapons.

Still, they could be bloody fast, and her swords worked poorly against bare bone. There was nothing vital to stab; she just had to keep hacking, aiming at vertebra until they splintered and severed and the damn things fell apart.

Beyond the melee Ashura saw Imoen get thrown to the ground. With a snarl she pushed forward, and in a few furious breaths a ribcage crumbled and a spine split in two, both skeletons collapsing and crunching beneath her boots. She sprinted forward, between the standing stones, swords and eyes fixed on the ragged man who commanded these things. The madman who had taken her friend. Just a few more paces…

A meaty fist swinging in took her by surprise and Ashura went off course, her back hitting one of the standing stones. She whirled to face her attacker: the half-naked corpse of a man with two arrows buried in his chest and no jaw. The zombie was unarmed, attacking with open hands and lumbering instinct.

Flesh made an easier target for her swords than bone, and with three close and desperate slices the walking corpse started coming apart. Organs spilled out, an arm that had been pummeling at her went limp and loose, and with two more quick slashes the creature's head was hanging halfway off its shoulders. That was all it took to reach some critical point where the magic couldn't hold the thing together anymore, and it slumped to the ground, a pile of rotting meat.

"Thurm!" the madman howled, one hand holding up a golden warhammer that crackled with electricity, the other gripping a square piece of ivory emblazoned with the black sun of Cyric.

Ashura whirled towards the priest and advanced. _Some vital organs to stab at last!_

"You took him from me! Again!" the priest shouted hysterically. A golden glow began to emanate from the symbol in his hand. "By the Prince of Lies I command you be…"

Sprinting, Ashura drove her swords ahead with more than enough momentum to run the madman through.

"… _still!_ " In a brilliant burst of gold the energy leapt from the holy symbol and filled Ashura's vision. She was a hand's length from driving her swords into the man's guts when every muscle in her body contracted, suddenly stiff as a board. Like a poorly balanced statue she toppled forward, her mind struggling but her body simply paying it no heed.

_ Nine fucking Hells! _ was all she could think as the ground rushed up to meet her. A jolt ran through her arms as her swords hit the earth first, the force of the fall rolling her onto her side. She found herself awkwardly looking up at the madman, her eyes apparently the only things she could move.

For a terrible moment the mad priest stood over her, his hammer raised high. Then there was a blur of violet and silver behind him, and dark blood spurted from the side of his neck, running in a torrent down his armored shoulder. He dropped the hammer, eyes and mouth wide with shock as he reached and pressed his palm to the wound.

The dagger struck again, this time at the back of the madman's neck, and he stumbled forward before whirling around, blood everywhere. In a raw voice he cried out. "Mommy?! Why?"

The next stab struck the man's windpipe, reducing his words to gurgles. He sank to the ground a moment later in a pool of bloody. "Because…I'm not…your bloody mum!" Imoen managed between deep breaths, panting hard as her bloodstained hands trembled and dropped her dagger. All around them the army of the dead collapsed, the magic that kept them upright suddenly gone.

A moment later Ashura heard a whispered prayer to Shar behind her and her stiff limbs suddenly moved again. Breathing deeply she struggled to find her feet, and once she had caught her breath she sheathed her swords and rushed over to help steady her friend. "Guess you didn't need rescuing," she stated.

"Nope," Imoen finally managed. "Thanks for trying tho." She leaned against Ashura and put an arm around her.

"And you ended up saving my ass," Ashura noted. "Again."

"Maybe," Imoen admitted. "I'm not keeping score."

Sometime later they made their way back along the forest path the priest had taken, Ashura's arm still over Imoen's shoulder with the others walking wearily behind. "That's the second time I've gotten dragged off by some monster while I was on watch," Imoen observed. "I'm thinking I'm the one who's cursed."

"Eh," Ashura responded with a dismissive grunt. "You're still alive. Seems more like the favor of some god to me. Lady Luck's smile or something."

"Nah. Wasn't luck." Imoen twirled her fingers. "Prestidigitation. That and some good old fashioned stabbing."

"You're getting rather good at both."

* * *

The hunting lodge was a welcome find after a long day walking beneath the towering trees, the party looking out for more tasoli as they went. Ajantis was beginning to feel a stiffness in his neck, though he did not complain. So far the Cloakwood had been steadily rolling hills covered by old growth trees, but all local lore insisted that the terrain grew more treacherous deeper in; rocky and littered with ravines.

"Nice to rest the night with a roof over our heads, I suppose," Xan admitted as they cautiously walked towards the sturdy log cabin, nestled beneath a broad oak in the shaded clearing. "If the residents don't try to kill us. They probably will of course."

"For what it's worth I sense no evil here," Ajantis noted. He realized after he had spoken that it hadn't been an entirely true statement. Shar-Teel was in front of him, stalking towards the hunting lodge, and with his mind attuned to sensing auras he could see a faint, red flicker emanating from the woman.

Best not to mention that though. When he had trained to spot such auras Ajantis' mentors had cautioned him against reading too much into a flicker of malice spotted in some human or elf. The world was littered with self-serving merchants eager to cheat any customer they could, and their spoiled sons and daughters. They all had that ember within them, but the selfish and malicious could live their entire lives without ever actually _doing_ anything evil.

Not to mention the other side of the coin. As Sir Keldorn often pointed out there were plenty of people who did not glow with an aura of malice but were capable of committing all sorts of horrible acts in the right circumstances. Kivan and Xan even seemed like perfect examples of the sort his mentor had warned him of. From what he had gleaned from them over the recent journey Ajantis was beginning to suspect that Xan would justify any sort of atrocity if it helped accomplish his mission, and Kivan craved nothing but the blood of his enemy. He would have to watch them both carefully.

Still, the woman made Ajantis warier than most. She seemed very eager to kill; boastful of it in fact.

Shar-Teel took the lead and pushed the cabin door open with a creak, her sword out. Inside it was dark, musky and silent. There were two bolts in the doorway but no other locks, and the interior of the cabin was sparsely furnished with a few wooden chairs, a table, several hammocks and a fireplace; all a bit dusty. The eyes were drawn to the decorations on the walls though: the stuffed head of a great elk, a bear, three large wolves of various breeds, and a head shaped a bit like a dragon but far smaller, just a little larger than the wolves.

"A baby wyvern," Kivan remarked with a nod towards the trophy. "This is the home of a hunter."

Ajantis shook his head. "No, I think it's more a hunting lodge."

The elf gave him a blank look.

"A human tradition I suppose you're not familiar with?" The look stayed blank and Ajantis explained. "Men of leisure often go on hunting trips when the season is right, and build cabins like this on the hunting grounds. A place to take shelter while they're out 'roughing it,' as my father would say. He took me on a few such trips when I was a boy, though the Ilvarstarr family lodge was more lavish."

"So your family is a bunch of gutless fops?" Shar-Teel asked. "What a surprise."

Not taking the bait, Ajantis simply chuckled. "That they are. In any case this is not someone's home, just a shelter. I doubt we'll be disturbing anyone by staying."

"Well, whatever," Shar-Teel said with a shrug. "This is a good secure place to wait out the night, I agree. Especially with those clouds that were rolling in. Smells like rain." She kicked off her boots and claimed a hammock.

The rest silently agreed, and they began to settle in for the evening. As Kivan and Ajantis returned to the cabin with wood for the fire Shar-Teel made a comment about how the 'ranger boy' should make himself useful and hunt up some supper.

"You can't hunt for yourself?" Kivan asked without a hint of emotion, and the warrior-woman launched into a tirade about how she had survived half her life alone in the wilderness and could find game better than any _man_ , thank you very much. She then promptly stomped off.

A short time later Shar-Teel returned with two limp rabbits in hand and a pleased look on her face, tossing them at the elf's feet. When she demanded that Kivan skin and spit her kills over the fireplace Ajantis half-expected the elven ranger to ask: "You can't skin a rabbit?" and see if the woman would take the bait, but instead Kivan simply drew his knife and started preparing their meal.

_ Hm. Perhaps he really is as humorless as he appears. _

Once their bellies were full and rain was tapping against the roof and windows Ajantis volunteered to take first watch, a simple enough task that consisted of sitting in front of the door while Shar-Teel slept in her hammock and the elves meditated. Still, he took his job seriously.

For his watch Ajantis lit a tallow candle to see by and measure the time. It had burned down perhaps two finger-widths when a sound at the door alerted him and his sword silently slipped from its scabbard. Someone had tried to pull the door open, and now they were banging frantically upon it. "Up!" Ajantis barked to his companions. "All of you!"

At the same time a man on the other side of the door shouted. "Let me in! Merciful Illmater! Please let me in!"

"Who are you?" Ajantis asked as he stepped close to the door, ready to swipe with his sword.

"They're right behind me! Please!"

The others were stirring but not fast enough, so Ajantis acted. Two quick yanks and the bolts were away, the door swinging inward as the squire backed up. Really it was no decision at all: his code demanded that walking (warily,) into a trap was preferable to risking the death of an innocent.

Thankfully there didn't seem to be any trick. The man who stumbled, panting, into the hunting lodge was old and grey, but still fairly spry-looking. He wore finely made wool and had a neatly trimmed beard, though mud stained his clothes and a frantic, hounded look marred his face. A large sword hung from his hip in a gilded scabbard. "Oh thank you!" the man panted as he passed Ajantis and then turned around. "Please bar the door. They could be right here!"

"Who could be?" Xan asked as Ajantis locked the cabin up again. "What's going on?" Shar-Teel and Kivan were up now as well, the elf ready with his bow and the human armed with her sword and dagger.

"Hunters of Malar," the man explained. "They've been after me all day. They killed my companion, and now they hunt me!"

"Why?" Kivan asked evenly.

The old man seemed to stammer at that, not ready with an answer.

"Indeed," Xan stated. "If I am not mistaken the time for the High Hunt of Malar this season has already passed. Perhaps you are just making this up and there is a perfectly just reason that someone is after you?" He eyed the man critically. "I have no intention of getting between two warring parties."

"Yeah," Shar-Teel grumbled sleepily. "I say throw this doddering old man back to the beasts or hunters or whatever. None of our concern."

"I'm a member of the Merchant League!" the man exclaimed. "I can pay you handsomely for my protection. Please!"

"Oh." Shar-Teel cocked her head. "Well in that case-"

"In whatever case," Ajantis cut in, "I pledge to protect you." He shot a glare at Shar-Teel. "Without charge."

"Even so, take this," the man begged him, unsheathing his sword and offering it hilt-first to Ajantis. It was a fine blade, gilded and tinted a metallic blue. When the squire tried to wave it away the man added: "The enchantment is attuned to beings that are not in their natural shape. If the hunters have taken animal forms it could be quite useful against them, and it's a fine weapon besides. You look like you could make better use of the sword than me."

Ajantis frowned, still unsure.

"Oh, just take the damned weapon," Xan complained. "But we will see what these druids of Malar have to say. Perhaps there's a way to resolve this matter that doesn't involve us or them getting senselessly chopped to pieces."

With a nod Ajantis finally accepted the sword and tested its balance. It was indeed a fine enchanted weapon, lighter than his own blade but of comparable size.

"My name is Aldeth Sashenstar, by the way," the grey-haired man said, tension lifting just a tad. "And I thank you greatly for your assistance."

"Pleased," Ajantis said with a nod, his eyes on the door. Despite the man's frantic pleas there seemed to be nothing but rain and thunder outside. They stood in silence, ready and waiting.

Xan had hoped the hunters could be reasoned with, but when they finally arrived they came with a roar, not words. First something massive collided with the door, wood splintering and bolts shaking. A few breaths later there was a second crash, and then one of the narrow windows on the cabin's wall shattered, the paw of a large bear briefly reaching through before retreating.

"Shapeshifters indeed," Shar-Teel muttered.

Ajantis nodded and focused his attention on the open window, his new sword held high. Another roar and a loud bang drew his attention back to the door. At the same instant there was motion to his right, and he whirled in time to see a great serpent slide between teeth of broken glass and over the windowsill. The moment its coils touched the floor the scales of the creature expanded and shifted, growing fuzzy and resolving into crude fur clothing worn by a young man.

Wasting no time, the man shot to his feet, his hands gestured before him and his face full of fury.

"Sir!" Ajantis shouted, hoping against hope that they could parley. "Can we talk?"

At the same time Shar-Teel was already charging towards the window with her sword leveled at the shapeshifter's stomach, and the young man was barking out something in a language that sounded more like growls than speech. With a creak and a rustle dozens of vines leapt up between the floorboards of the cabin, glowing and semi-transparent, as if they had been called halfway from another world. One wrapped firmly around Shar-Teel's waist and arrested her motion with an "Umph!" while Ajantis felt another snake up his leg. He found himself kicking, trying to wriggle away from the slithering plant.

Two more large snakes slipped through the window and grew into men, both also clad in light and crudely fashioned furs (a skirt, boots, and light cloaks that covered their shoulders, back and upper chest.) One man was older than the other two, and had a strangely green cast to his skin that may have been the effect of some spell. He stepped forward, an air of command in his voice as he spoke. "You shelter this man?" he growled. "This murderer?"

"We do not," Xan objected, his ankles entwined by the magical vines. Kivan seemed to have dodged the plants, and was shifting from foot to foot as more vines reached out. He had abandoned his bow and was working his way towards the wall where his halberd rested. "I knew there was more to this," Xan went on with a shake of his head. "We can work something-"

But the man was not listening. He had already begun to snarl in the strange language the other had used. Screams of pain erupted from four throats at once as thick thorns grew from the ethereal vines, instantly burying themselves into the ankles and legs of all but Kivan.

The wild elf had managed to reach his halberd now, and used it to vault over the clinging vines. As soon as his feet hit the floorboards close to the three men Kivan swept out with a stroke of his weapon, the axe cutting into the calf of one of the young men and sweeping him off his feet.

Through the pain Xan had managed to chant something in a low voice. A dazed look came over the face of the man who had first summoned the vines, and a breath later the magical plants winked out of existence.

Ajantis found himself surging forward, legs suddenly free and instinct taking over. The older man who led the shapeshifters was calling on his god once again, flames leaping from his hand and dancing into the shape of a sword. The magical fire was solid as steel when Ajantis struck and the man parried, but the shapeshifter was no fencer. Ajantis managed to knock the sword aside and bring his own blade to the man's temple all in one stroke. The blow should have bitten deeply into his foe's skull, but what he struck felt more like a tree trunk than a man, and the blow simply sent the druid stumbling back with a light cut and jarred Ajantis' arm.

The man Kivan had knocked off his feet was not so well protected, nor was the man that Xan had caught with a spell. As Kivan split the head of his fallen foe open with his halberd Ajantis pushed past the older shapeshifted and his sword bit deep into the dazed man's midsection, doubling him over and releasing a torrent of dark blood and darker innards.

Shar-Teel charged forward at the same time. Her longsword bounced off the older druid's chest without leaving a mark, but she didn't slow. Hitting the man with a tackle, she pushed the hand that held his burning sword aside with her own sword arm while her left hand stabbed down, driving her dueling-dagger into the druid's eye.

"Not protected _there_ are you?!" she snarled as the man's body shook with shock, Shar-Teel's voice a mix of pain and fury. The moment her foe grew still she rolled over and lost her weapons, one hand clutching at her stomach and the other pressing to a deep wound in her thigh. She seemed to have taken the worst from the summoned spikes, since the vines had been clinging to her legs and midsection instead of just her ankles.

Ajantis rushed over to the prone woman, taking a deep breath as he focused and drew what healing power he could find into his hands. As gently as he could he pushed Shar-Teel's hands aside and pressed down on the wounds, warmth flowing between them. The torrent of blood seemed to slow as the injuries closed.

"A murderer huh?" Xan snarled, looking over at Aldeth while he clutched at his bleeding ankles.

Aldeth snorted. "I am _not_."

"Tell me the truth or I will force it out with a spell," Xan commanded.

With a defeated sigh Aldeth looked away. "It was all a terrible mistake. And it was _not_ my arrow, mind you. It was my companion. He…"

"I'm waiting."

"He thought he was hunting a wolf. When the arrow struck and it fell, well…it shifted into a young woman's body…"

Frowning, Ajantis looked up. "A horrid tragedy, then. All around."

"If he's telling the truth," Xan noted. After a moment he cocked his head and then shrugged. "I think he is though."

"What does it matter?" Shar-Teel groaned from the floor. "Long as we get paid."

"I'll keep my word," Aldeth stated carefully. Next he tossed a bag onto the floor, coins clinking. "That's not much I'm afraid, just silver that I carry when I'm traveling. But if you're ever in Baldur's Gate go to the Merchant League guildhouse. I'll pay a handsome reward, let's say a hundred gold coins, for saving my life. And you may keep the sword as well."

"We'll hold you to it," Shar-Teel said, her voice weak and gravely.

They spent the next hour bandaging their wounds and moving the corpses outside, before once again settling in for the night. Ajantis stretched out in the hammock next to Shar-Teel's, but found it hard to sleep. Adrenaline, the driving rain and the smell of recent death hanging in the room all conspired to keep him awake for what seemed like hours while the warrior woman breathed softly nearby. He found himself envying her and her simple outlook on things, though eventually he did drift off.

* * *

The smell of brine and the whisper of crashing waves brought a slight smile to Ashura's face as she took a deep breath. It felt like home, right down to the cold wind rolling off the Sea of Swords, though she was fairly certain Candlekeep lay many leagues to the north.

Imoen stopped and smiled too, looking across the craggy hills to a spit of blue-white beyond. There was the sea, or at least a small finger of it, forming a cove that bit deep into the land. "Just like home eh?" Imeon asked.

"Right down to the ground," Ashura noted, smiling back and beginning to walk again. The stony earth beneath their feet was treacherous and uneven. There were patches of sodden moss and grass here and there, and between them lay jagged rocks and low spots packed with slick white pebbles. The careful walk they were taking towards the waves was not unlike the path Imoen and Ashura would sometimes take down along the cliffs to the ocean near their home. It brought back a flood of memories: climbing, swimming, sandcastle-building. Along with a lot of scraped knees.

Safana wobbled a bit, walking along ahead of them and attempting to climb along loose rocks that formed a crude stair up to a sort of plateau. Behind her Coran slipped in, placing his hands against the woman's slender waist and steadying her. "Thanks dear," Safana purred, smiling over her shoulder at the elf. She took his hand in hers and encouraged him to help her climb the stones. When the elf boosted her to the top with an enthusiastic push on her bottom Ashura expected that he'd get a slap, but Safana just laughed.

"Sheesh," Imoen whispered.

"Maybe he's getting closer to the real 'treasure' that he's after," Ashura noted with a frown.

"Good," Viconia added in a sarcastic tone as she climbed from stone to stone. "Perhaps he won't notice if we take all of the gold." She nimbly followed Safana and Coran up the rockfall. At the dark elf's belt hung the golden warhammer they had taken from the mad priest, wobbling as she danced her way up.

At the rear of the party and the base of the rocks Garrick offered Ashura his hand. She just shook her head. "Can climb on my own," she told him gruffly.

_ Please don't start imitating that fool _ , she thought as she hopped up onto a mossy stone. _Your own kind of foolishness is bad enough._ The climb was easy anyway, far less of a challenge than the sliding rocks in the Valley of Tombs. In the end Ashura did help pull Garrick up when she reached the top though, giving him a smile and a squeeze of her hands as she obliged.

On top of the little plateau they got a better view of the sea and the craggy landscape. Safana had her map unrolled between her hands, eyes sweeping the land and sea before her. She pointed at the little finger of seawater to their south. "If I'm not mistaken the peninsula where the treasure is hidden is in sight, just south and west of that cove." She took a deep breath, enjoying the briny air. "We go around the water and follow the shore from there. The landmark we're looking for is a ruined lighthouse. Black Alaric's cave should be on a strip of land north of it, along the coast." She rolled up her map and began to march forward.

Catching up with their leader a bit, Ashura asked: "And what about this cave? What's in it?"

Safana gave her a curious look.

"If there was just treasure in there," Imoen pointed out, "you wouldn't need a group of 'big strong men' to get to it, right?"

"Ah," Safana said with a nod, seeming to catch on. "Yes. There's some sort of guardian."

"Of course there is," Imoen muttered.

"It's nothing we can't handle," Safana reassured them.

"Yeah," Ashura said dismissively, "but what specifically _is_ it?"

Safana sighed. "A golem," she admitted, "stitched together from human body parts and reanimated by sorcery. It prowls the cave, but it's slow and easy to avoid. And we've more than enough arms to take such a creature down."

"Hm," Ashura mused, thinking back to the countless bestiaries she had read as a child. _A flesh golem_. Slow but tough as ten ogres, and immune to magical spells. Fire wouldn't actually damage it but would supposedly slow it down (something about disrupting the magic that reanimates the flesh,) and their magical weapons would help. A nasty thing to fight though; no wonder Safana had waited till they were almost to the treasure to mention it. "We probably could," Ashura agreed. "We should be cautious though. Take advantage of how slow those things move. Hit and run, if there's room to maneuver in the cave."

"I was going to suggest that," Safana said with a smile.

"Of course you were." Ashura was unconvinced. The Calishite woman always seemed to keep her cards close to her chest. Then again that habit had probably saved their asses back at Tazok's camp, when Credus had betrayed them without knowing their full plan. "Anything else we need to worry about?"

"Well, there are always unexpected dangers on the Coast," Safana said with a dismissive shrug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Imoen shows us why you should always have mage hand memorized, and Ajantis demonstrates a lot more moral nuance than he shows in the game.
> 
> I figure orders of paladins would teach that you shouldn't go around attacking anyone who sets off your magical evil detector, since spoiled children or greedy old ladies who've never actually hurt anyone might end up setting it off.
> 
> The inspiration for Bassilus kidnapping a party member and trying to sacrifice them came from Laufey's legendary Baldur's Gate novelization In the Cards. Before recently reading that story I'd never made the connection between the circle of standing stones and the 'family' that Bassilus is creating. I'd like to think that the scene ended up being different enough from Laufey's to be considered relatively original.


	31. Sirine Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like a warning is in order for the next two chapters, though it’s hard to word it right without spoiling a bit of the story. Suffice it to say that, although rape does not occur in this story, the threat of rape (and all the other icky connotations that come with magical mind control being a real thing in the world of the story) plays a prominent role in this chapter and the next one. Hope that’s a fair warning.

_ "If it so pleases the court, I choose death by succubus."  _ – Attributed to Nysis Mediacros of Thay at his trial for murder (The Hathran judges were not amused.)

* * *

At highsun the party took a break from their hike along the jagged coast, sitting down on smooth, wind-worn rocks and breaking out some provisions from their packs. The whisper of the sea was present as always, waves lapping against the rocks beneath their picnic spot as the sun shone faintly through a grey sky. Today the wind that rolled off the Sea of Swords was relatively warm and gentle; just fierce enough to rustle hair and carry the scent of brine inland.

As they munched on dried nuts and a little salted beef Ashura broke the silence. "Just a couple more hours walk, right?" she asked as she chewed, eyes on Safana.

The Calishite nodded and swallowed. She reached into her pack and fished out a wineskin before finally speaking. "A few hours at most." With a smirk she pulled the stopper and took a drink. "We need to reach the cave well before nightfall, since much of it is below the tideline, though I advise caution. Don't want to alert the guardian unless we have to." She passed the wineskin to Imoen; a ration of Westgate Ruby that they had been sharing to wash these little picnics down over the past few days. There wasn't much left, just a few swallows sloshing around in the bladder.

"Quick and careful," Coran mused. "A delicate balance, but it so happens to be my specialty. Well, one of my specialties." He grinned at Safana, who returned his smile with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. By now Imoen had handed the wineskin to Viconia, and the dark elf took a grateful sip.

Placing a hand on Coran's shoulder, Safana climbed to her feet. "We should test those skills then." North of their picnic spot the cliffs of the coastline sloped downward, leveling into a strip of beach that stretched beneath stands of hearty pines. "How about we scout ahead while the others rest up? We need to make sure there's nothing dangerous between us and the cave."

Coran chuckled. "You just want to get me alone, I think."

Rolling her eyes, Safana turned from the elf. "You think wrong." Reaching over, she took Garrick by the arm and pulled at his sleeve. "Garrick, come along with us dear. To chaperone."

"Uh…I'm not the best-" Garrick stammered, though he did rise to his feet, letting himself be led forward.

"Yeah," Imoen protested, "I'm a better scout."

"Oh come now," Safana purred, "You can move quietly enough." She kept tugging and Garrick shrugged and followed.

After a gulp of wine Ashura frowned and watched the young bard walk towards the beach. He turned and gave her a bashful, apologetic smile before Safana pulled him farther down the slope and Coran rushed to follow.

"Well, just ignore me I guess," Imoen pouted as the three scouts walked off.

Viconia chuckled. "I suspect she wanted _both_ the males to herself," she said, her voice slightly slurred.

Imoen laughed at that. "Ha ha! Yup. Her and her 'big strong men.' Shame she never actually found any. Just those two string-beans."

Ashura continued to frown as she watched Garrick disappear beyond the pines. She shook her head. _What am I, jealous or something?_

But something felt off. Wrong.

In fact the slow, sloppy motion of her head only reinforced that notion. When she turned a bit she saw two Imoens, red and violet blurring in Ashura's swimming vision. "Something's not right," she managed with a heavy tongue.

"Ya," Imoen replied. Was the girl swaying or was it Ashura's distorted vision? Or both?

Between them Viconia slumped forward, limp and gracelessly sliding off the rock. She fell to the ground in a heap.

Ashura blinked frantically, trying to clear her vision. "Hells!" she snarled, looking down at the object she was clutching. "The wine!" The skin slid out of her fingers, the few remaining drops splashing the pebbles.

"Ya," Imoen repeated in a spent and sleepy voice. "I think…think she drugged the…" She bent forward, sliding off her seat as well. For a moment Imoen managed to catch herself on her hands and knees, then she collapsed completely.

Trying her best to stand, Ashura merely managed to wobble and fell to her knees, her limbs useless and heavy as lead. It was a familiar sensation, not unlike the time she had been poisoned by an assassin's throwing knife about a month ago. With a furious growl she managed to place one hand in front of the other and crawl, sharp white pebbles digging into her palms.

Her pack was right there. If she could reach it, find one of the antidote potions…

The tension suddenly went out of her elbows and she fell, the earth a blur, flying up to meet her face.

* * *

As they quietly made their way through the trees at the edge of the beach Garrick looked over his shoulder again and again. Imoen had been right: this really wasn't his thing. Of course he supposed he might as well learn 'scouting.' Dutifully he tried to avoid stepping on any of the loose rocks or twigs that dotted the forest floor, each foot carefully placed as he tried to keep pace with Coran and Safana.

Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Safana had been so insistent that they go ahead, all of a sudden, and leave the rest of the women behind. That seemed odd, and strangely important.

Garrick's frown deepened when their leader turned a bit and led them out onto the open beach. He carefully followed, looking each way as he left the treeline. This didn't seem like scouting at all.

A sound carried across the surface of the water and the sand, and when it reached Garrick's ears it washed all of his apprehension away. It seemed to be a song: simple and wordless, carried by a voice that was vaguely feminine, but too high and resonant to be completely human. Memories of the college in Berdusk came flooding back to him; the first time he heard the haunting sound of Lady Cylyria singing the Ballad of Blacksaddle in the amphitheater, or the night that the toe-tapping rhythms of Avael's four-piece band drew him and a dozen others to the conservatory for a sudden, spur-of-the-moment dance.

In Berdusk, in the shadow of Twilight Hall, Garrick had thought he had heard every pitch the human voice can make, yet this song put them all to shame. He had to see the source. He simply had to.

His companions forgotten, the young man nearly skipped along as he made his way across the sand, searching desperately for the source of the song. Before it came into view two additional voices rose up, harmonizing with the first, and Garrick found his head swaying, giddy and in time with the echoing melody.

He quickened his pace as he spotted the singers: feminine silhouettes standing upon the sand, their skin the azure color of tropical waters and their hair the dark green of seaweed. There were five women in total, three facing the sea, their heads thrown back as they sang. The other two silently looked on, clutching bows of carved driftwood like sentinels, and on their backs hung baskets of woven seaweed bristling with arrows. The quivers were all that they wore beyond a few decorative strings of seashells and pearls, and the three singers were unarmed and similarly adorned.

As Garrick and the others approached, the singers and their guards turned from the sea, a pleased smile growing on the central woman's face. She continued to call with her wordless song as she beckoned with her hand, and Garrick hurried to obey. When he came within two paces of the beautiful creature she gestured again and he halted.

Revealing pearl-white teeth, the leading singer smiled and dropped her song, though her companions continued to hum. She seemed the most beautiful of the five; tall, strong and voluptuous all at once, and as Garrick stood and swayed before her he noticed that her hair slowly waved in the air above her head, buoyant and carried along by unseen currents.

The woman seemed to be speaking now, though Garrick had a hard time following the words. "You wish to pass, seafarer?" she asked Safana, half-speech and half-song.

Safana replied with a careful bow. "Aye. And as payment for passage through your lands, Lady Sil, I offer the customary tithe." She gestured towards Garrick and Coran.

Sil shook her head slightly, a scolding tone entering her voice. "A poor tithe you bring. Only two men? Though the younger one is pleasant to look upon at least."

"And the elf is quite experienced in the arts of love," Safana added, her head still bowed.

Sil's laughter was high and musical. "So you say." She approached, cocking her head this way and that as she inspected the two men, much like a farmer examining new horses. Or cattle.

Deep down Garrick's guts were churning, but at the same time his head was swimming, enraptured by the song. It was a strange, roiling mix of sensations: fear held back by fascination. Not to mention the acute tightening in his pants from the close proximity of this beautiful, naked creature.

_ A dangerous creature too _ , some part of him knew. A fey creature. A sirine.

"Your tithe is accepted," Sil finally proclaimed. "You may pass. Just you, and just this once. If you return see to it that you bring us something more. Three men, at the very least."

On his periphery Garrick could see Safana give one more quick bow before hastening along the beach.

By now the two other singers had dropped their song and were circling Coran, inspecting him as they whispered back and forth to each other. Garrick found himself blinking, his head still in a deep fog. He struggled to think, and better still to move, though little more than a shiver came of it.

Had he…had he been _given_ to these creatures? Was he going to be enslaved? _Again_? What a fool he'd been, following Safana like that. She had never been their friend, in fact from the very beginning she had been his and Ashura's _captor._ He should have said something. He should…

His hand moved, desperately searching for the hilt of his rapier. Maybe if he could at least grip it…

Sil noticed his struggle and stepped closer, face to face with Garrick. "You're upset?" she cooed in a sing-song voice.

Despite himself Garrick's muscles relaxed, soothed by the melody. With a glance over at Coran, the sirine added: "Your companion seems content." The elven man was standing still, a blissful look on his face as the two unarmed sirines ran their hands along his body, assessing his musculature and gently tilting his face this way and that. "Some men find this the most desirable fate of all. Occasionally the offerings we get are volunteers from the pirate crews that wish safe passage: men who have decided to let go and spend their last days in bliss as our playthings."

Her smile grew predatory, and another shiver ran through Garrick's body. Weakly, he managed to speak. "What…what will you..?"

"Oh hush," the sirine whispered, reaching forward and placing a finger upon his forehead. "Don't you worry your pretty little head over it." As her fingertip made contact with his skin any trace of resistance was suddenly washed away.

He stared ahead, unthinking and compliant.

* * *

With a splitting headache worse than any she could remember and every limb still feeling like it was full of lead, Ashura somehow managed to push herself up. She wasn't sure if she had passed out or not, though the veiled sun above still cast the world in the same shade of grey. She didn't have the strength to stand, but on hands and knees she managed to point herself towards her pack and heave her body over to it, fingers digging into the sand.

Panting hard, she finally reached the satchel of cured leather and began sifting through it with clumsy, shaking hands. Beneath a wad of bandages she found what she was looking for: a thin glass vial, stoppered with a cork and full of a sloshing green liquid.

The apothecary had advertised these as magical potions that would 'cure any poison.' Hopefully whatever Safana had slipped them counted as such. She winced and almost gagged with the first taste of intense bitterness, but she managed to gulp it down.

Ashura hadn't realized how deeply she had been gasping until her breath slowed and calm warmth spread through her limbs. Rolling onto her back, she wiped the sweat from her brow and managed to sit up. There was still a little throbbing in her head but it was clearing, and her arms now felt deliriously light. She looked over at her companions, still slumped where they had fallen.

Her first instinct was to try to feed the other antidote potion to Imoen, but as she lifted the bottle out of the pack she realized that the drow priestess would likely have a spell that could do the same thing. If she could be trusted. _Well, she'd better oblige after I wake her up_.

Sitting down next to Viconia, Ashura gave the drow a testing shake, but she seemed to be dead to the world. _Well, no need to be gentle then._ Pulling on the drow's shoulders, Ashura managed to lay Viconia's head across her knee, mouth wide open. Not knowing what else to do she simply unstopped the cork and poured the foul liquid into the drow's mouth, using her other hand to keep Viconia's head straightened. It was a bit of a struggle, but she managed to force a swallow.

Viconia's eyes immediately shot open and she made an indignant, choking sound.

"Swallow," Ashura commanded. "You've got to swallow." There was rage in the drow's eyes, and her limbs twitched. She seemed to be trying to struggle, and the potion bottle was only half-empty. "Come on," Ashura growled. "It's a damn cure."

At those words Viconia's eyes seemed to soften, just a little. Ashura took that as a cue to pour the rest of the potion, and with a wince the drow drank. As soon as the liquid was gone Viconia shot up and off of Ashura's lap, wiping her mouth with a scowl on her face. " _Jael usstan tlu pwiri_?!" the dark elf snarled. When Ashura didn't answer, Viconia switched to her usual stilted Chondathan. "What happened? Who drugged me?"

"Saf-" Ashura began.

"That _ilsik_! I knew it! My instincts told me she was up to some treachery, but I thought perhaps I was simply misreading surfacer customs. Bah!" She shook her head. "Why did _you_ not see this coming?"

"So can you wake Imoen up or did I just waste an antidote potion on you?" Ashura asked impatiently, ignoring the accusation.

Viconia's lip curled up into a snarl and she gave Ashura a hateful look. The next thing she did, however, was whirl away and climb to her feet, quickly stomping over to Imoen. "I have magic to relieve poison, yes."

"Then use it."

There was brief tension in the drow's posture, but without another word she knelt over Imoen and began to softly sing, her open hands just above the unconscious girl's chest. Brief ripples of darkness formed and danced between Viconia's fingers and seemed to connect with Imoen before winking out of existence. "The poison should be gone now," Viconia stated, "though she still sleeps."

Ashura knelt down beside the drow. "Yeah, she tends to sleep pretty soundly." She placed her hands on Imoen's shoulders and gave her friend a gentle shake.

It took a few moments of prodding but eventually Imoen blinked and opened bleary eyes. She rubbed her forehead and scrunched up her face while Ashura filled her in.

"Well imagine that," Imoen muttered once the story had been told. "We just got double-crossed by one of our traveling companions. What is this, the third time?"

"Yep."

"And she knocked us out and ran off with the men? Why the heck would she do that?"

"No idea," Ashura admitted, standing and impatiently turning towards the beach. "Let's find out." Without a backwards glance she began to walk.

"Okay okay," Imoen grumbled, fumbling with her quiver and bow. "Right behind you." She followed and Viconia fell in behind her, marching down the slope and onto the narrow spit of beach. Even now, long before high tide, there wasn't much beach to speak of; just little bars of soggy sand and piles of rock. Over the western sea the sun had finally broken through the clouds, the churning waves sparkling and illuminating the treacherous path.

There were no clear tracks to follow, so they simply marched beside the surf, trusting that the scouting party had followed the water and were somewhere up ahead. For a long time the whisper of the waves and the occasional creak of an old pine tree were the only sounds they heard. Eventually the murmur of distant voices carried over the sand as well, and three sets of footprints emerged from the trees to run ahead of them along the beach.

Keeping as silent as they could the three women quickened their pace and followed the trail, and when Ashura climbed over a small berm the source of the conversation came clearly into view. Coran and Garrick stood transfixed and completely still as five naked women with sea-blue skin moved around them. Farther up the beach Ashura caught a glimpse of Safana, the pirate-woman disappearing around a bend.

The blue-skinned creatures seemed to be inspecting their prisoners, and as Ashura drew closer her stomach turned at the look she saw in Garrick's eyes. Eyes that she had watched sparkle with sly mischief and youthful curiosity were empty now, dull as a cow's. Somewhere behind her Ashura briefly felt Imoen's hand at her shoulder, but by then she had pitched herself forward and begun to run headlong towards Garrick and the fey creatures that had enspelled him.

Caution would do no good. Perhaps if she could get the drop on them-

As one the five fey women turned towards the intruders and as one they opened their mouths. The resonant, wordless song hit Ashura like a cool sea breeze and slowed her in her tracks. Three paces and she had stopped completely, the reason for her haste and fury suddenly forgotten.

Four voices continued to fill the air as the tallest woman at the center of the entourage stepped forward and eyed the newcomers. In addition to the glittering shells that decorated her body there were strings of pearls woven through her hair, giving the impression of some sort of crown.

She had to be their leader. The Queen of the Sirines.

Even in the haze Ashura was certain that was what these creatures were, detailed in several bestiaries she had read as a child. Perhaps caution would have been a good idea after all…

"More visitors on our shore?" the Sirine Queen asked in a playful voice. "What an eventful afternoon. Although…" she shook her head, "…tsk tsk. It's three women. You offer no tithe?"

"Tithe?" Ashura asked in a dreamy voice. Her head was in a fog but the sirine's tone compelled her to speak.

"Yes. To pass along our shores you must give us an offering of suitable…" she reached over to Garrick and lifted his chin with her fingertip, "playthings. Otherwise the punishment for trespassing is most sever. Every sailor in these parts should know of this."

"I'm no sailor," Ashura found herself saying.

A playful laugh. "Obviously. I suppose that you were after these two," she gestured towards Coran and Garrick. "That woman stole your men and brought them here? She had the look of a thief."

Ashura found herself nodding. "She betrayed us."

More laughter. The fey woman shook her head, the free locks of her hair curling like tendrils, defying gravity. "Well, the circumstances matter not to me. What _does_ matter is that you walked _our_ beach with no tithe. There's only one thing to do in that case." She turned her back to the three intruders and guided Garrick with her, beginning to walk up the shore. Two of the other sirines took Coran by the arms and pulled him along behind their leader.

After a few lazy steps the Queen turned slightly and spoke over her shoulder to the last pair of sirines; the ones that carried bows of carved driftwood in their hands. "Vex and Tyn: take care of these three will you?" she commanded.

One of the bow-wielders nodded. "Yes mistress Sil."

"Join us when you're finished, but do make a good sport of it, alright?"

"We'll save _some_ of them for you two," one of the other sirines who was walking Coran up the beach added with a sly grin.

"Oh we will huh?" the other teased.

Ignoring them, Vex and Tyn turned towards Ashura and her companions. "This should be fun," one of them sang. "We haven't had a good hunt in ages."

"We shouldn't draw it out toooo long," the second one said, pulling an arrow that seemed to be tipped with sharpened coral from her quiver as she gave a significant look backwards. Sil and her little entourage where disappearing around the same bend in the shore that Safana had recently taken.

"But the hunt's no fun if you don't make it last," the other protested.

Shaking her head the second sirine hummed a few bars and placed her arrow against the bowstring. "Either way, let's get moving." She addressed the captives. "Let's get rid of those weapons shall we. And that armor that the dark-haired one's wearing as well. We want everything nice and fair."

Ashura's hands shook as she reached for her swordbelt. Maybe she could draw her weapons and surprise these creatures. But despite her struggles she found her fingers seeking the clasp of the belt instead.

A rush of air and darkness stopped her, her vision filling with impenetrable black. She blinked in confusion as thin fingers gripped her bicep and yanked her backwards. A few stumbling steps and she was in the sun again, facing a dark, billowing cloud. With twin whistles two objects pierced the darkness and flew by; splotchy driftwood shafts tipped with filed coral. The shots were blind and missed wildly.

" _Dos vrai wael_!" Viconia was shouting right into her ear. "Move! To the trees."

Shaking the fog from her head Ashura obeyed, sand flying as they sprinted for the cover of the pines, Imoen already running ahead of them. Each step cleared her head a little more, and as they left the beach she drew her swords with a scowl. _Bloody mind-control magic!_

"Perhaps this will be a fine hunt after all, sister!" one of the sirines behind them was singing out.

Ducking behind a tree trunk and bracing herself, Ashura looked back. The sirine's had passed through the wall of inky black and taken opposite paths, closing on the patch of trees from separate angles. They glided along on their bare feet, quick and fluid as eels, their long green hair floating behind them and whipping with each turn.

"Indeed!" the other sirine responded. "The feistiest prey we've had in ages." With that their bodies shimmered like the surface of the sea and they seemed to grow less and less substantial with each step. Soon they were lost among the trees, though Ashura thought she saw an unnatural glint here and there.

_ Sirine's can make themselves invisible at will _ . She was sure she had read that in a bestiary somewhere. _Great._

"Can you dispel that?" Ashura hissed at Viconia, gesturing with the hilt of her righthand sword in the general direction of the hunters.

The drow was crouched against a neighboring tree, a tight look on her face. She shook her head slightly.

"Shit. We need to be able to see," Ashura muttered, and with those words Viconia's eyes brightened as something seemed to occur to her.

At the same time Ashura felt an intense tingling in her right arm and pushed off and away from tree. The arrow followed an instant later, piercing the bark with a thump. Something black and wet dripped from the arrowhead where it had struck. Some sort of deep-sea poison, perhaps?

A second sharp tingle at her chest prompted her to duck low, and as the arrow sailed by she tried to follow its path with her eyes. _She's close. Beside that thornbush._

Ashura charged.

Before she reached the spot where she guessed the enemy lurked, the trees and brush vanished around her, swallowed up by thick grey mist. _Another sirine trick_ , she thought at first, but before her in the wispy fog a feminine outline was moving, dancing away from her and carrying a bow. Wherever the sirine went she displaced the mist, and Ashura followed.

" _Our prey, our prey, so full of tricks and treachery_ ," the siren sang as she darted through the mists, improvising. In the ghostly fog her melody sounded a bit off, distorted. " _But I'm tricky as the undertide, and soon you'll be drawn down with me._ "

The siren was almost close enough to stab, but Ashura couldn't seem to line her swords up and move properly. She felt as if the fog was a solid thing around her, something she had to swim through. Ghostly singing turned to laughter as the sirine's bow groaned, point-blank.

_ No. _ A cold burst of frustration and rage pushed the mental fog away, and without thought or care Ashura pressed forward. Her righthand sword bit deep into driftwood and the bow snapped as it was knocked from the sirine's hands. She continued to lunge, and the left sword struck something solid and kept going.

Soothing song became a banshee-wail, ear-piercing and close. With a few steps the mist parted and the creature in front of Ashura shimmered into view. The sirine was stuck on her lefthand sword, struggling like a skewered fish.

Or a shark.

The creature's mouth was open wide in an inhuman scream of rage, revealing rows of jagged teeth, and as she flailed fingers that had once seemed soft and manicured extended and became dagger-sharp claws. They swiped at Ashura's face, and somehow the creature's arms seemed to bend unnaturally and grow. There was a sharp sting and a gush as the claws bit into Ashura's cheek.

The force of the blow turned her head, and after the sting a numbness quickly set in. Ashura was already tilting her right arm back though, and with a primal growl of her own she stabbed, driving her righthand sword through the creature's torso beside the left and lifting her enemy fully off the ground.

The sirine was a blur of lashing fury now, claws buffeting Ashura's face. There was an explosion of pain…and then nothing.

She came to laying on the ground, her head foggy and her hands empty. She blinked and shook herself, pushing up and trying desperately to piece together what had happened.

Movement to her right.

Ashura turned, grasping for her swords but finding only empty air. Empty air seemed to be what she was facing as well; what was moving were two arrow-shafts that seemed to float on their own above the ground, a few paces away.

_ The other sirine!  _ Ashura desperately scrambled backwards, trying to crawl away from her invisible foe. The arrows drew closer, bobbing along quickly, though it was impossible to tell how close the siren's claws were.

Impossible that is, until steel sang through the air and sank into the invisible creature with a wet thunk. There was a shimmer and the sirine grew corporeal again, a faint hiss escaping her lips as her eyes rolled back in her head. She sank to her knees half-a-pace from Ashura and another prismic shimmer ran across the surface of her skin. It was as if a bubble had burst; blue skin became white sea-foam, and the sirine dissolved before Ashura's eyes. Within the parting foam floated strings of shells, along with two arrows and Viconia's sharpened throwing-ring. Beside the disintegrating creature lay another puddle of foam, roughly shaped like a person's silhouette.

As she stood and blinked away the fog in her head Ashura recalled more from the bestiaries. Supposedly sirines could shapeshift to some extent, and their touch could rob you of your mind. The dying creature's claws had very nearly left Ashura open for the second sirine, but the danger was over now.

Still, there were three more of those things out there. _And_ they had Garrick and Coran. As Ashura searched the mossy soil around her and retrieved her swords Viconia swooped in, whispering a minor prayer and brushing her dark fingers across Ashura's face. The scrapes where the sirine's claws had bitten deep stopped stinging and began to itch instead.

"Thanks." After wiping some of the blood from her cheeks Ashura stood and gave her companions a look. "Come on," she muttered, gesturing up the beach. Imoen instantly nodded and they began to march towards the surf once more.

"We seek revenge then?" Viconia asked as she fell in behind them.

"Yeah," Ashura replied, glaring ahead.

"And Garrick and Coran too," Imoen interjected, a frown in her voice.

"Of course." The trail was clear, pairs of footprints both booted and bare marched along the beach in a single direction, over little dunes and around jagged rocks. Imoen took a breath, sounding as if she would say something more, but in the end she fell silent.

"Do the fools truly need to be sought?" Viconia asked after a time. "It seems they have stumbled into a fate many males would envy, enthralled by a beautiful fey creature."

Ashura shot her a quick glare and said nothing.

"Uh…" Imoen managed, cringing, "maybe, but I've read some nasty stories 'bout what sirines and other creatures like them do with their playthings once they get bored with them."

The look Viconia gave her suggested that she didn't understand the problem with that.

Eyes constantly sweeping ahead, they followed the shore past glistening seaweed, dirty sand speckled with shells and narrow passages where the land loomed above them and the surf crashed against the rocks. "Their song," Imoen ventured, breaking the silence again. "What are we going to do about that? I'm not too keen on getting charmed again."

"I _may_ have a solution," Viconia stated cautiously. "Provided we act before the creatures can make themselves invisible."

Before she could explain further they rounded a sharp bend in the jagged coast. Ahead of them stretched a white sandbar stained here and there with green and marred by several trails of footprints. The tracks diverged just before reaching a wall of stone and a low black opening cut into the rock, one pair of prints continuing into the cave and the others veering and following the coast.

For the first time since she had begun marching up the beach Ashura stopped, her knuckles white as she gripped her swords.

"The trail of the bitch who poisoned us and set your males up," Viconia noted, pointing towards the single pair of footprints that disappeared into the cave. Safana was in there somewhere, searching for the treasure that she had been willing to sacrifice a dozen companions to reach.

"No doubt," Ashura agreed, her voice a low growl. Surf hissed nearby as the sea broke upon the shore, and in the distance the roar of the next wave sounded across the water as it built.

"Shura?" Imoen's voice was low, half-catching in her throat. The next wave broke upon the sand and found the three in silence. Imoen seemed reluctant to voice the rest of her question, but Ashura knew it anyway.

And she knew the answer.

Swiftly, Ashura turned to the left and began to stomp forward, damp sand flying as her boots disturbed the footprints of the sirines and her captured friends. She gestured with her sword as she went. "Come on. We've got some bewitched dumbasses to rescue."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we finally learn why Safana was so keen on getting 'big strong men' to help her with her treasure hunt, and making constitution her primary stat finally pays off for Ashura. Also I got to invent some drow curse words.
> 
> In this story Sil and her little band are a lot more sinister than sirines are often portrayed in D&D lore. In the game they do attack you on sight, after all.


	32. Undertow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case there's any doubt, the author of this story does not share or condone any of Viconia's views on sexual and gender politics.

_"Whoever said 'No plan survives first contact with the enemy' just didn't have the right spells prepared."_ – Laspeera Inthre, _Mageduels: A Manual_

 

 

* * *

Lapping surf splashed the women's boots as they followed the broken coast, walking carefully over wet rocks and pebble-sand. The beach had fallen away, leaving almost nothing between the cliffs that rose to their right and the ocean on their left. It was a rough trail, and they took it cautiously, ears open and prepared to halt at any hint of the sirines' song.

They slowed a little more when objects began to litter their path: first one boot and then another and another, along with mismatched socks. A raincloak lay strewn across a rock, and a little farther up the sandbar lay a green shirt accented with vibrant purple alongside Garrick's leather vest.

Keeping her head low, Ashura quickened her pace. Close to her ear Viconia whispered: "It seems the creatures are unwrapping their gifts. I still say we leave them to it." They stepped past a pair of leggings. "No doubt your males are quite happy in whatever…position they are being put in. And the thief who betrayed us grows farther out of reach."

"How can you be 'happy' with your mind stolen out of your head?" Imoen asked, a tinge of anger in her voice. "No awareness of what's happening around you, let alone free will." She bent down as she talked to carefully pick up Coran's enchanted cloak, shaking a little sand off before pulling it over her shoulders.

Viconia was nonplused. "I doubt they were using their minds for much of anything. Especially the _darthiir_. He seemed like the sort to happily trade his brains for a chance to get close to anything vaguely female and pretty."

"Think he values his freedom more…" Ashura began, then sharply shook her head. "Look, I'm not debating this shit with you right now. We're rescuing my friends. You can help and follow us or you can go back to whatever cave you crawled out of." As they talked they continued on the trail, and Ashura cringed when they passed another pair of trousers.

"But why exactly?" Viconia continued to push. "You are jealous of these sirines aren't you? Is it that they stole _your_ male?"

"Maybe?" Ashura said with a shrug. "Who cares? We're rescuing my friends. Help us or crawl back to your cave."

Viconia's upper lip twitched for a moment but she finally fell silent. The next discarded object they passed along the sandbar was Coran's bow, followed by Garrick's rapier. _At least we won't be forced to fight them_ , Ashura noted. Past the rapier lay strips of white linen that had probably once been a loincloth. Viconia raised an eyebrow as they silently walked on.

Jealousy? _Bah!_ At the moment Ashura's belly felt as if it were churning with all manner of emotions, but she doubted jealousy was among them. Frustration definitely. And determination. And above all else was rage. Rage would carry her through this. It had pushed aside the enthralling song after all. It would drive her forward, and damn all the terrifying monsters and obstacles and mind-stealing magics in the world, she was _going_ to rescue Garrick.

She had dragged the poor, aimless fellow into this dangerous series of adventures after all. She had also watched those soft, dreaming eyes of his look up at the stars, and watched the sirines steal that light from those same eyes with their magic. She'd get him back, safely. It was the least she could do.

The three women slowed as the sound of splashing and a musical trickle of laughter reached their ears. Large rocks obscured the view ahead, but seawater seemed to flow past. Some sort of inland pool or lagoon perhaps? There was a heavy feeling about the place as well; the air seemed thicker with brine, the late afternoon sun beat down, hot and golden, and the crash of the waves sounded louder.

Beyond the wall of rock and over the trail of seawater lay the layer of the sirines. Even if she had not heard the hint of their laughter Ashura simply knew this was the place. And maybe rage would be enough, but a good plan couldn't hurt.

She turned to Viconia. "That spell we discussed?" she asked.

The drow nodded and flexed her fingers. "It will be ready the moment they open their mouths, _alur_."

"I can climb up on those rocks," Imoen offered, turning her head up. "Find a good position to shoot from."

Ashura nodded. "Alright. Get into position. I'll take the low road and get their attention. We move fast, take them by surprise, and rescue our friends."

Her companions nodded and with that Ashura strode towards the gap in the rocks. She tried to stick to the sand and high ground, but soon there was nowhere to walk but shallow water, her boots splashing as she went. This would be tricky.

With as much care as she could Ashura cautiously eased her way around a boulder that had been blocking their view of the seawater pool. Beyond, the rocks all sloped down to a sandy, low area where the tidewater gathered. Low cliffs hung over the shallow circle of blue, and at the center of the pool stood a few worn stones covered in glittering shells and pearls and wreathes of seaweed: a primitive throne for the Sirine Queen. Sil lounged upon the rocks, watching and instructing her court as they played with their newly acquired toys.

Still as statuary and wearing just as little, Garrick and Coran stood thigh-deep in the water. Perhaps to the sirines they _were_ statues, since under Sil's laughing instruction the two other creatures seemed to simply be moving the elf and the human through different poses; arms up and arched at first, then down with their shoulders back in a stance that reminded Ashura of sentries. All three creatures were close together at least. _Good_.

"Should we make them kiss?" one of the sirines asked, half a whisper and half a laugh.

"Not yet," Sil commanded from her throne, shaking her head slightly. "Back to back first. Let's see if our new honor guard can look menacing. Sad there's not much muscle on this pair. Hopefully we'll get some sailors again soon. Those always have a bit more meat on their bones."

An involuntary shiver ran down Ashura's spine as she crept further in, the water sloshing above her ankles. The way that creature used the word 'meat'...

Gripping her swords tight she took a breath, tucked her head forward and advanced. As she moved through the pool her toes kicked aside solid objects that bounced through the silt and felt too light to be rocks. Her splashing steps swiftly caught the attention of the sirines, and as they looked up at Ashura in surprise she shouted:

"Get your hands _off_ of them!" she roared, her voice carrying over the open water. The pool grew deeper as she plowed forward, and she was still at least ten paces from any of them when the shock wore off and the sirines exchanged glances and grins. As one their lips parted, heads tilting back, preparing to harmonize.

It occurred to Ashura that this would be the perfect moment for Viconia to leave her proverbially high and dry. Drow were known for their penchant for treachery, even supposedly bragged about it, and though Ashura had figured the dark elf would respect strength and forceful leadership it was possible that she had given Viconia one too many harsh orders. Well, if that was the case _rage_ would just have to carry her through.

It didn't come to that though. As the sirines all turned towards Ashura and began to open their mouths Viconia climbed atop one of the low cliffs above the pool, her fingers stretched high above her head and tendrils of inky black danced between them. As the sirines sang out their first note the drow's voice eclipsed theirs and she called upon her goddess. "In the name of the Nightsinger: may darkness and _silence_ prevail!"

The note rising from the three sirine's lips died instantly, as did the sound of splashing around Ashura's feet as she plunged forward. An arrow streaked through the air, eerily silent as it struck the sirine beside Garrick directly in the eye. The creature's mouth opened wide in a soundless scream, seawater flowing from her wound in the place of blood as she clutched at the arrow shaft and sank into the pool.

At the same time Sil and the other sirine quietly flickered out of view. Ashura could still follow them though, her vision fixed on the displaced water where one of the sirines had stood a moment ago. She followed the creature's path, plunging forward and kicking her way through the muck until she was close enough to swipe with her swords. As she went her feet knocked against more solid objects and pushed them aside.

Too light to be rocks. _Must be bones._

Their battle was as slow and eerily quiet as it would have been if they were fighting at the bottom of the sea, and guessing at the sirine's position was tricky. Bits of torn chain fell from Ashura's armor as she tried to dance away from raking claws, unable to even hear the whistle as the sirine struck at her. At the same time her own swords found nothing but open air, her invisible opponent dodging and slipping away from every slash.

The silencing spell stole the sound of Ashura's frustrated groan, and she found herself hopping backwards as the water parted before her and her enemy advanced. Searching herself, she tried to recall the fury she had felt in the battle at Tazok's camp, and the inner fire that had come along with it. It seemed the furnace was still there, somewhere within her, and the crackling waves were as easy to call up now as they had been then.

A feral grin spread on Ashura's face as the air shimmered before her and bombarded the invisible creature, giving her pause. With a muted splash the sirine seemed to turn in the water, white froth appearing as she hastened and retreated.

Flicking her blades through the air Ashura pursued. _That's right! Run! You're not the only one with mind-magic!_ A slash of her righthand sword created a shimmer in the air, and released a trickle of seawater, but the sirine kept splashing through the pool and it was unclear if anything vital had been struck.

Before she could raise her lefthand blade for another stroke something thick and solid hit Ashura in the stomach and arrested her momentum, briefly dragging her feet backwards through the muck. The pommels of her blades struck at the invisible thing that had grabbed her, but instead of budging it seemed to contract tightly against her ribs. Suddenly Ashura's lungs were burning and she was kicking and struggling frantically.

_What in the hells is this thing?_ Whatever it was it was invisible, slimy and constricting hard. Another jolt of white-hot pain and Ashura threw her head back in a silent scream as she felt what must have been a rib breaking.

Thrashing and struggling hard to think, she managed to draw in one deep breath and reverse the grip on her righthand sword, bringing it down in a stab. The blade had more of an effect than the useless pommel-strikes, and shortly after the fourth frantic stab the invisible thing seemed to slacken all at once, sending Ashura plunging face-first into the pool.

She came up a moment later, coughing and hacking up water as she struggled to find breath again. Motion on the periphery drew her eyes, and she watched as a massive tentacle winked in and out of existence, slithering beneath the water. There were gashes along its trunk and two feathered arrow-shafts bobbed where they had struck the thing.

Once the tentacle disappeared beneath the surface, the water-level of the entire pool seemed to lower significantly. _The Sirine Queen,_ Ashura realized. _Shape-shifting_. A moment ago she had been some sort of octopus or kraken, but what was she now?

Standing up and still struggling to breath, Ashura noticed motion beneath the surface. Something was darting nearby, fast and serpentine. As she turned and tried to face it with her swords the form whisked out of view.

_Where-_

Surf splashed Ashura's back and a massive wave buffeted her legs and almost knocked her off her feet as something erupted from the pool behind her. Behind and above now, arcing and crashing down.

All she could do was point her swords up above her head and hope for the best, but -Talos be praised- they pierced something thick and solid! The whole weight of the creature pressed down on Ashura, pushing her to one knee as water stung her face and waves and foam churned all about her. Everywhere the air was shimmering. She saw scales, dagger-like teeth, black eyes. A catfish-like whisker brushed against her face.

_Some sort of sea-serpent_ , she realized as the creature rolled off of her arms and her swords slipped from its jaws. It thrashed and shimmered in the water, shrinking and resolving back into the form of Sil. The Sirine Queen's hands snapped up to press against her bleeding mouth, pain and hatred in her eyes.

Green water leaked from the arrows embedded in the sirine's side as well as great gashes from Ashura's swords. As Sil reeled back Ashura advanced, and when her swords struck again the magical silence that hung above them fell away. The banshee-wail the Siren Queen let out was deafening, but as Ashura twisted her blades it finally turned into a chocked gasp. Within a breath strings of shells, pearls and white sea-foam where spilling from Ashura's swords and falling to the surface of the pool, the body of her enemy dissolving before her eyes.

A moment after the Sirine Queen died the golden glow that hung above the pool seemed to fade, along with the crisp azure of the water. The coral cast to the stone that ringed the pool dissolve as well, grey plainness taking its place.

Desperately trying to catch her breath, Ashura glanced about. Imoen stood nearby, another collection of foam floating in the water beside her. Hopefully that was it for the sirines.

Together they waded across the pool towards Garrick and Coran, who were both blinking through bleary eyes and rubbing their heads. Imoen reached them first and slipped Coran's cloak from her shoulders, wrapping it around the elf. Ashura followed her cue and removed her own stained black cloak. Garrick gave her a grateful nod and pulled the wool tight around his shoulders as she slipped it on.

She leaned closer, hugging the bard. "Thanks," Garrick managed, gratefully whispering into Ashura's ear.

She smiled at that. "Any time."

"You need to take better care of yer cloak," Imoen told Coran with a smile, but he still looked a bit confused, and had made no effort to wrap the fabric around himself. The tattoo of Hanali Celanil's face was still on full display, and to add to the awkwardness the elf stood at a sturdy full-mast despite everything that had happened around him. 

Eventually Coran managed to frown. "Did you have to come along and end that most beautiful dream?" he asked. "There were these amazing sea-creatures, and-"

With a deep groan Imoen smacked her forehead.

"I told you," Viconia spoke up, "this is the fate the elf would have preferred."

Coran actually nodded at that, a wistful look on his face.

"Well, _I'm_ grateful…" Garrick muttered, appalled.

Shaking her head, Imoen pointed at the water near Coran's feet. It was still quite silty, but not so much that you couldn't make out some of the objects beneath the surface. "Uh, would you at least look at _those_ , you sex-crazed idiot?" Imoen asked.

Squinting, Coran looked down. "Oh," he mumbled. "Um…well maybe…" The realization made him wilt, quite literally, and he finally clutched the cloak tight about himself. All around Coran's feet and laying in other spots at the bottom of the pool were bones: long femurs, broken ribs, shattered hips. And skulls.

Dozens upon dozens of very human-looking skulls.

With her arm slung over Garrick's shoulder and her other hand clutching her injured side Ashura had begun guiding the bard towards the gap in the rocks and the beach beyond. She gestured for the others to follow. "Come on, you moron. Your clothes and armor are scattered on the beach. And your weapons. We're going to need them."

"Of course," Coran mumbled, his voice cracking a bit. "And uh…thanks for rescuing me."

 

 

* * *

With slow and deliberate care Safana placed her foot down, then crept half a step along the wall of the cave. Another step, followed by another, always watching to see if there was a nearby stone to disturb. Twenty paces from her position stood the guardian, a grotesque block of mismatched flesh and frayed stitching, still as stone with its back to her.

Captain Rezar had always boasted so about the golem that protected Exzesus' little pile of treasure in case the sirines failed, and how like the sirine guardians it was a macabre testimony to the pirate fleet's prowess. For each deposit or withdraw of treasure the sirines had to be appeased with male prisoners taken in raids, and the golem had been stitched together from the body-parts of some of the crew's greatest enemies and rivals: an arm from Big Thrum Trayus, the sturdy torso of Horiss the Bearclaw, half the face of Grinning Anassia, the lulling tongue of Devil-Quick Robin, and a dozen other pieces of the dead had been used to build the creature.

Of course Rezar always failed to mention that he had merely been a mate on the Exzesus when those trophies had been taken and the ship's mage had been assembling the golem. Safana had teased him once on the subject; a crack about how little he had done to actually build the fleet that he had inherited. She had never before seen the man's mood grow so dark, and so quickly. That had been the moment, perhaps, when the romance of being a pirate captain's mistress had begun to fade.

Her eyes fixed on the silent creature, Safana continued to ease her way along the wall. It seemed to take hours, but eventually she slipped her way around a bend in the cave and began to slink forward, only picking up the pace a little when she was sure she was far beyond the guardian. She allowed herself a careful breath, half-creeping and half-crawling into the next wide chamber.

All around the walls were slick and gleaming, lit by an opening far above. When the tide rolled in at night these tunnels would be underwater, but for now the central chamber was relatively dry and open. There was a shallow pool in the center, and half-submerged in the gloomy water sat a sturdy mahogany chest lined with bronze. There was no lock, and it swung open silently for Safana as she lifted the lid and peered inside, sighing with relief.

'Black Alaric's Treasure.' What a crock of shit, though the girls had swallowed the lie eagerly enough. It was true that this smuggler's cave was ancient, and perhaps pirates from the era of Black Alaric (if he had ever existed,) had used it, but what Safana sought was much more recent.

And personal.

And there it was, beneath the pile of gold coins and ornate wands. With a triumphant grin she fished the brass signet ring from beneath the treasure and eagerly slipped it on her finger. It still fit snugly, and no doubt the enchantment that recognized her blood remained. At last, after nearly three decades, the long-lost daughter of house Alar could return and claim her father's fortune! Never again would she have to trust her life to the whims of the rough men of the sea.

It had been an adventure, certainly, but it was winding to a close now. She just had to slip from the cave and make her way south, to Calimshan. And the gold laid out before her would certainly help. With a musical clink a handful of coins went into the pouch at her hip, then another.

It was almost over, after all the sacrifice and stealing, backstabbing and hustling. She regretted some of it certainly. It would have been easier on the conscious to lure the bandit gang she had put together into the sirine's layer instead of those naïve, young adventurers, but twists of fate had forced her to improvise.

A shame about the elf, especially. There had been something rather endearing about him, annoyingly persistent as he could be. Something that reminded her of some of the better devil-may-care rogues she had known on the seas. Unreliable and smug, but fun-loving and free. A shame she had met him just as she was leaving that life behind her.

A soft sloshing sound drew Safana's eyes to the water around her, and she froze. Sloshing became a light splash as the surface was broken by something massive beneath, just a few paces to her right. The coins fell forgotten to the water and Safana scrambled backwards, a throwing dagger instinctively raised.

The thing in the pool was slow and ponderous in righting itself, streams of foam and seawater falling away to reveal grey, uneven planes of flesh joined together by lines of stitching and great, meaty joints bolted to the torso with steel. The creature's head was too small for its body, and its sharp little face was as blank as death.

Though…as Safana frantically backed away from the pool and stared wide-eyed she recognized something in the sharp, off kilter chin. In death the face looked different, but that chin had belonged to Captain Astrov of the _Knucklejack_ and the Amnish fleet. She was sure of it! A man she had seen die two years ago, at Rezar's hand no less.

_Damn you Rezar! You prideful little man!_ It seemed he had been collecting grizzly prizes of his own; enough to assemble an impressive flesh golem in her absence. Out of the shallow water now, the construct stood nearly nine feet tall, and though its face remained blank there was no doubt where its attention was focused when it lurched towards Safana.

Gritting her teeth she hurled her throwing knife, her heart hammering and then sinking when the blade bounced off the creature's lopsided chest without a nick. Sand and gravel crunched as its weight bore down and it stomped towards her. The sound reverberated off the walls of the cavern and in her ears as she whirled and fled for the nearest passageway.

_Crunch._

_Crunch._

Steady and firm and heavy as a siege engine. The pace even seemed to be picking up behind her as she darted through the snaking tunnel. Echoes reverberated off the stone when the golem's fist smashed into one wall, then again when its body careened into the other. It was big and clumsy, but the next stomp seemed to be right behind Safana, dust and pebbles hitting the backs of her legs.

_Gods! They're faster than they look!_ Lungs burning and head pitched forward, Safana plunged through the tunnel as fast as she could.

A flash of daylight greeted her eyes as she rounded a corner. The exit! At the far end of the open cavern. Another flash followed, much closer: the glint of light reflecting on a metal joint. She had nearly closed the distance with the thing when she realized that it was the arm of the first golem.

Safana's eyes widened and her mouth fell open at the shock of the creature looming from the darkness before her, its arm bending back, fist clenched. Maybe she could slip by: duck and wriggle and run past the thing, but time had slowed to a crawl, and hard as she commanded her legs to bend she just couldn't move fast enough. Not as fast as that fist; the great meaty hand of Big Thrum Trayus. It grew and grew until it filled her entire vision.

Somewhere in the cavern a scream reverberated off the walls. Was it her own?

 

 

* * *

"Slow down, Shura!" The party had been struggling to keep up with their leader as they scrambled along the shore, but Imoen's plea was more a warning, and Ashura slowed and stopped a few paces from the entrance of the seacave. Panting hard, Imeon caught up with her friend and held up a cautioning hand. "The guardian, remember? We need to be careful in there."

Ashura scowled. "Safana was lying to us the whole time."

"Maybe, but there still could be danger in there. Traps or pitfalls or something." As usual Imoen had her bow in hand, an arrow laid out and ready. Ashura noticed that it was one of the ornate red shafts some of the bandits had been equipped with: a fire arrow. "Let me lead, okay?"

With a deep breath Ashura nodded. As boiling as her blood was at the moment she had to admit that plunging head-first into an unknown cave was probably a bad idea. Stepping aside, she cringed and rubbed her side, still itching from one of Viconia's healing spells.

Imoen knelt down slightly and began to silently make her way forward, and following her lead the others crept beneath the worn lip of the cavern and into dripping darkness. A moment after everything darkened Ashura's infravision activated, casting the dim world ahead in faint shades of red and orange. They hadn't gone far, perhaps twenty feet, when they entered a wider cavern and something slightly brighter than the ambient heat caught Ashura's eye.

Someone or something lay in the center of the cavern, and with breathless steps they approached to examine. Imoen seemed to realize what it was first, and let out a little gasp that echoed off the stones. To Ashura it just looked like a red and orange streak on the cave floor, along with a few lumps. On a whim she willed the infravision away, and the dim daylight that wafted through the chamber proved enough to actually give her a better view.

Safana was recognizable by her clothes, her body still and splayed out across the cavern floor with limp arms and legs turned at odd angles. Sprayed across the stone where her head had struck the ground was a long, wide pool of red and black, along with lumpy bits of grey and long clumps of wet, sticky hair. Her clothes were recognizable but her face was not: it had been caved in by some sort of horrific blow.

"What the hells did that?" Ashura found herself hissing in the darkness, the echo of her voice making her cringe. Speaking had been a mistake, and she realized that instantly when movement ahead answered her question.

Two massive bodies slowly stepped from the shadows, their limbs jerking much like animated skeletons, and as one the creatures turned to face the newcomers. Not sparing a blink or a breath, the two masses of pieced-together flesh raised their fists and advanced.

_So she hadn't lied about_ that _! A flesh golem guardian. Two of them!_ And they moved a lot faster than they looked, mismatched feet stomping forward, one of the creature's fists dripping with fresh black blood.

In a flash Imoen stood and drew and loosed, a streak of sizzling fire lighting the cavern walls as it zipped by and struck one of the golems in the chest. There was a burst of cinder and flame where it landed, and as the fire spread along the creature's body its stomps became lumbering steps and it slowed, arms pumping mechanically.

Rapid as she could manage Imoen launched a second burning arrow at the other golem, then whirled on her heel. "Hit and run!" she shouted at Ashura before dashing past her.

_Good idea!_ Nodding, Ashura backed up rapidly, swords between herself and the burning constructs. They seemed to feel no pain, but somehow the flames _had_ made them slow and clumsy, each step monotonous, creaking along instead of jerking.

There was a twang to Ashura's left and a thump to her right: Coran and Garrick firing away at the burning golems. It was hard to tell if the arrow and bolt did any good, but they certainly sank in deep.

The strange battle continued like that for a time, the group slowly backing down the tunnel and unleashing volley after volley of magical bolts and arrows into the walking monstrosities. Soon Imoen's fire arrows had the golems completely wreathed in flame, and they seemed even slower than before.

Doubting that the arrows could finish the job, Ashura took a deep breath and stopped her retreat, ducking and weaving forward towards the closest golem. Unlike other battles it felt less a matter of reflexes and more a careful, methodical game as she avoided the heavy, burning fists of the twisting creatures. Mindful of them both, she slipped in behind her target, ducking low and getting as close as she dared.

Sweat-soaked and face baking, she kept to the creature's back and hacked at its legs again and again. Lean in to slash. Hop back as soon as you manage. Shift to the side again and again as the creature tries to circle and you keep biting at its ankles. Each blow stung her wrists and jarred her arms; it was like trying to fell a tree with her swords.

A burning tree. With flailing fists.

But on the sixth or seventh blow there was a satisfying snap as something holding the golem's leg together broke and it toppled over, legs and arms pinwheeling. It slowly convulsed and tried to right itself on the cavern floor, sliding long the stone. Ashura just gave it a wide berth and worked her way to the second burning golem, hacking away at it the same way she had worked upon the first.

When the two lumps of animated flesh were unmoving piles of foul-smelling, burning stuff on the floor, Ashura gasped and backed away at last, pressing her back against the cave wall. She wiped her brow, a bit relieved that that had ended up more like a job at a smithy than a true battle.

When the flames had finally died they regrouped and gathered over Safana, briefly pondering what this had all been about. The corpse had no answers it seemed, and eventually Imoen led the way again, into the depths of the cave.

 

 

* * *

"So there really was a pirate's treasure, at least," Garrick muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. They had entered and explored the great chamber with the pool as slowly and methodically as they could. Nothing more had jumped out from the shadows though, and relief and exhaustion were finally catching up with the party as they stood over the large sea chest.

"Maybe," Imoen observed, sorting through the coins, gems and assorted wands. "It's certainly not Black Alaric's though. A lot of these coins are pretty modern. It's not a _huge_ stash either."

"Better than nothing, for all the headache," Ashura observed.

"Yeah. I just wish I could figure out what Safana's game was," Imoen mused. "Something personal to do with the pirates who stashed this but…Hrm."

Ashura nodded, tossing one of the coins up into the air and catching it. "If she had told us her plan, maybe we could have…" She shook her head and tossed the coin back into the pile. What a foolish thing to get killed over. What a foolish thing to betray your allies over too.

Her companions were worth more than any pile of coins. Ashura knew that, sure as anything. It wasn't stupid sentimentality either: working together they had just survived betrayal, sirines, guardian golems _and_ come out on top.

The last ones standing.

Rolling another coin around on her palm, Ashura took a breath, still in shock. It was amazing to still be alive, really, let alone escaping with a large stack of coins.

All in the course of an afternoon she had been knocked unconscious by some sort of sleeping potion, betrayed by someone she had believed trustworthy, thought two of her friends lost forever to hypnotic sea monsters, taken a slash across the face from the claws of one of those monsters and nearly been crushed by the tentacles of another. _Then_ she had nearly been crushed again by the fists of an eight-foot-tall creature built from pieces of the dead, and she was fairly sure her eyebrows were singed. At the same time they had all managed to stumble out of the way of death, both of her kidnapped friends were now alive and well, the monsters were all dead and they were the only ones left standing to claim a substantial pile of treasure.

_This must be what it means to be an adventurer._ Exhilarating and absolutely terrifying, all told.


	33. Imoen's Revenge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning that there's a brief sex scene in this chapter. *And* there's some magical gender-bending hijinks ahead too. Lots going on in this chapter.

_"And it was after that wild night of experimenting with alteration spells that I vowed to never drink again."_ –Jermien Velgont, _Transmutations Great and Small_

 

 

* * *

Giant spiders. Why did it always have to be giant spiders?

Xan shuddered and looked away from the upturned, twitching legs of the dying creatures. Eight legs each, twenty-four in all, and each one curled and hairy and _far_ too long. _Yuck!_

Unfortunately no matter where he turned his eyes fell upon thick gobs of webbing that ran between the branches and the sacks of desiccated remains that hung from them. In the end he looked down at his moonblade, trying very hard not to imagine what sorts of bones filled those web sacks.

"Ha!" Shar-Teel shouted, in one of those hearty growl-laughs of hers. At the same time she rammed the end of her sword down into the thorax of a convulsing, upside-down spider, heedless to the thrashing and the small geyser of green-black ichor. "You look like you're going to be sick."

Glowering down at his blade, Xan simply mumbled: "I just do not know _why_ it always has be giant spiders. Why not giant bees? Or scorpions? I'd even be happy with giant snakes."

Shar-Teel shrugged. "Because the giant spiders ate all of those things long ago?" she suggested. "Quit your sniveling. There are worse things out there."

Swallowing hard, Xan turned his back on her. He didn't want to imagine what could be worse than giant spiders.

With a shuffle of sharp, chitinous legs and a sudden waver in the air the answer appeared before him, as if conjured up by his fear.

What's worse than a giant spider? A giant spider that appears and pounces on top of you through a warp in space like it's leaping from a funnel-web to catch a fly, of course.

With a high-pitched yelp Xan leapt backwards, the moonblade flying up almost of its own accord between himself and the parting mandibles and slathered fangs of the creature. A jolt ran through his arm from the impact and his entire vision was filled with flailing legs and way, _way_ too many eyes. Pinching his eyes shut, Xan turned and tried to shield his face with his free hand, the fabric of his robe tearing as the sharp tips of the spider's legs lashed at him.

Another jolt to his arm and the weight was ripped away. He backed a step before tumbling onto his backside and scrambled through the grass, his sword still raised protectively and dripping with ichor. Tensing, he kept his sleeve over his face for a few moments as his heart drummed furiously in his ears, but a high-pitched, inhuman squeal drew his attention and he dared a look.

The teleporting spider had been about the size of a large wolf, but it was curled up now, legs twitching as Shar-Teel bore down on it from the side, leaning against her longsword. She turned towards Xan and gave him a toothy smile. "You surprise me, elf," she snarled, yanking her sword free. "Nice reflexes. I thought that fancy blade of yours was just for show."

Catching his breath, Xan gave his sword a long, incredulous look before righting himself. Had she _saved_ him? No, from the look of the blade and the wound between the spider's many eyes it seemed he had actually delivered a mortal blow to the creature himself, and then Shar-Teel had stepped in to finish it off. "Well, I prefer spells," he managed, "but I am sufficiently trained to wield a blade."

Shar-Teel rolled her eyes and turned away. "More like you just got lucky and the spider landed on your sword. I've no patience for men who are afraid to get their blades wet." She walked towards Ajantis and Kivan, who stood back to back, carefully watching the trees and the great webs between them. "But maybe you'll prove you can actually wield that pretty thing of yours. We'll see."

Blanching, Xan frantically wiped his sword on the nearest convenient web sack. _Had that been…innuendo?_ Alright, now he was really going to be sick.

Somehow he managed to hold the bile down as he gingerly dodged spider corpses and filed in at the back of the group. The terrain deep in the Cloakwood was just as rough as they had been told: all jagged gorges and steep hills packed tightly with hearty trees that clung to the rocks or hung above the ever-present streams. There were hardly any real paths and never a level surface to be found.

They spent the afternoon struggling with the hills and rocks as they tried to climb their way north and west towards what they guessed was the heart of the forest, but thankfully the spider webs thinned out quickly and the next few hours were free from the chittering legs. "Maybe this is the territory of the giant snakes," Shar-Teel suggested at one point with a wolfish grin.

In the end they reached the bank of a great river as the sunlight began to fade, nothing encountered more dangerous than mosquitos. They searched briefly for a bridge or ford, but soon set to finding a good campsite instead.

Xan was grateful once that was all settled and he could finally ease his aching feet and study his spellbook by the firelight. Unfortunately the evening's peace was swiftly interrupted, and by the oddest of things: a strange humming sound began to emanate from one of his pockets. Curious, Xan reached into his robe and grasped his small, cloth-wrapped hand mirror. He had gone so long without the magic activating that he had nearly forgotten he carried the thing.

Was Everska finally calling? His heart lurched as he pondered the possibility. _Could they be…withdrawing me from this doomed mission?_ An alien, unfamiliar feeling welled up briefly in his chest. Hope.

But when he held the mirror up and spoke the command word it wasn't an elven face that appeared on the smoky surface of the glass. Squinting at the blurred image, Xan found himself peering at a round human face framed by red hair.

"Yippee!" a female voice chirped from the mirror. "Finally got this thing to work."

"Imoen?" Xan asked.

"Yup," the fuzzy image replied.

"Is there uh…some sort of emergency?"

"Nope. Just wanted to see if I could reach you. And I thought it might be fun to have a pen pal! Or um…a mirror pal? Is that what you call it? Hope that's okay."

He felt like he should scold her for using such a powerful magic device for something so frivolous, but as he furrowed his brow and thought a moment Xan couldn't come up with a good reason _not_ to use the mirror. Each mirror could only be used to contact another once per day, but he doubted that Imoen using the daily charge simply to chat would lead to any harm. If his superiors in Everska were ever going to call they still could, and truth be told it was nice to talk with someone who wasn't dour or psychotic.

"I…I suppose it is," Xan eventually managed. "Did you find...oh what was it you were searching for? Pirate treasure?"

"We did. Sort of. We're camped in an old shipwreck now in fact. Not sure if it was a pirate ship, but I like to think it was. Was quite an ordeal tho. Safana betrayed us and almost fed us to a tribe of sirines!"

"Of course she did," Xan muttered.

"Aw, come on. Don't tell me that you actually predicted that she was going to betray us, Mr. Wise Wizard. And if you did you should have bloody told me before we set off!"

Xan shook his head slightly. "No, I did not foresee that exactly. But I find it practical to always expect the worse. I assume Shar-Teel is going to attempt to murder me the moment the geas gets dispelled or wears off, for instance."

"Of course you would." Imoen seemed to purse her lips thoughtfully. "It's probably a good philosophy though. If you always expect terrible things you can't help but be pleasantly surprised most of the time! Maybe I should try taking up pessimism."

Despite himself Xan felt a hint of a smile pull at the edges of his mouth. "I doubt it would suit you."

"So how's yer adventure going?" Imoen asked.

"Adventure? I nearly got eaten by a giant spider today. The kind of giant spider that can _teleport_ out of nowhere and appear right on top of you. Most disturbing."

"Yick!" Imoen made a sour face. "The part of adventure stories with giant spiders was always the part I'd skip."

"I wish I had that luxury." Xan shrugged slightly. "Still, we all survived, somehow. I suppose that is the best one can hope for."

"Ya, we all made it too. Well, 'cept for Safana, but I don't think anyone's missing her. But let me tell you, sirines can be scary creatures. Maybe even worse than giant spiders!"

"Perhaps." The hint of a smile on Xan's face grew. "Tell me about it."

In the end they talked late into the night, and when they were finished Xan found that his neck was sore from leaning over the scrying mirror, his spellbook almost forgotten.

 

 

* * *

The old shipwreck proved an excellent spot to camp for the evening; sturdy enough to block wind and surf and rain, and the hull of the ancient caravel was perched a bit above the current tideline. Better still the ship had not been fully plundered, and along with barrels of fish and fruit that had rotted to nothing decades ago the party found several sealed casks of wine sitting deep in the hold.

There was no way of telling where the dark stuff in the casks had originally come from, but to Ashura it tasted as rich as the Westgate Ruby they had recently finished. Coran proclaimed it a fine vintage as well, for what that was worth. A humble celebration broke out in the hold, a few rounds of drink used to wash down much of their remaining provisions.

Ashura was into her third cup when she noticed that the group was short one person, and she excused herself to carefully make her way up rickety wooden steps to the slanted deck of the ship. From there she climbed further onto the stern, following the sound of harpsong. The shipwreck was slanted a little to one side and the bow leaned heavily towards the ground, making the railing at the back of the stern the highest point (or as Imoen had put it: 'The ship's butt is sticking up in the air!') and a fine spot to look out over the ocean.

The last hints of sunlight were slipping beneath the waves on the western horizon, casting a few streams of sparkling gold across darkening waters. Above the fading sunset ominous clouds gathered, threatening an early evening storm. Garrick was perched upon the railing, pulling at the cords of his harp in a winding, mid-tempo tune that sounded a bit like a sea shanty to Ashura's ears. Something in the fluttering melody reminded her of birds, like the gulls that were circling higher and higher above them right now; a song of wings and open air. Of surf and freedom.

She thought of telling him that she liked his music far better than the sirine's song, but held her tongue. Best not to remind him of those monsters, and what they had very nearly done.

When she reached the rails and leaned against them Garrick turned to her and smiled. "Nice view," Ashura commented, looking out over the ocean.

"Yeah," Garrick nodded. "Good to have someone to share it with though. I was worried you'd miss the sunset."

"Knew I'd come up here huh?" She raised an eyebrow. "Lured by your song."

He frowned and looked away, and she bit her lip. _Damn_. Yeah, reminding him of _that_ was definitely a bad idea. "Sorry," she hastily added, offering her tin cup and desperate to change the subject. "Brought some wine."

Cradling his harp in his lap, Garrick reached over and lifted a battered cup of his own. "I still have some myself." He chuckled. "Hm. So how about a toast then?"

"Sure." Their cups approached each other, not quite clinking. "To..?"

Garrick's eyes twinkled. "Freedom, of course. Freedom…is glorious." The cups tapped together and they both drank deep.

Once again Garrick looked out towards the waves. "A nice high point where you can see everything, the wind in your hair, and the ability to set your feet wherever you please. Tis glorious indeed."

Ashura chuckled a bit at him waxing poetic. Then the bard turned to her once again, smiling bright. "That said, I am at your service. Truly content to follow you wherever you lead."

_Mistress Ashura_ , Imoen had said. _Hrm._ Ashura shook her head just a little. "Really, you don't owe me anything. There's no reason…"

"Oh, there are plenty of reasons. You're tough and clever and inspiring, and what we've gone through already seems like it would make a great adventure story. Maybe tidied and dramatized up a bit. When it's all said and done I could be your biographer."

"My flatterer, more like."

"That too. You're also very beautiful and-"

She leaned in over the rails and shut him up with a kiss. _A fine idea_ , she decided after a time. His taste and warmth were far more pleasant than his fumbling attempts with words. And there were no more words for a good long while, just the sound of the waves and the cry of gulls and Garrick's harp gently sliding to the deck between kisses.

The sun was long gone and the darkness had deepened when they finally slipped down a hatch and found themselves in the old captain's cabin. Carpet and whatever bedding had once been there was mostly moldered away, but much of the space on the boards was dry and clean. With a loud clink Ashura's chainmail shirt hit the floor first, followed by her arm and shin guards.

After a time Ashura broke away and placed a fingertip on Garrick's lips. "Wait here," she whispered, then disappeared briefly below deck. She returned a moment later with a lantern in hand and her bedroll under her arm. Spread out fully, the wool made a fine nest for them in a corner of the room, and from there she guided Garrick down and playfully climbed on top, pressing the smiling young bard to the floor.

Minutes later their remaining clothes were scattered across the boards and they were rolling on the bedroll, laughing as they shifted. Eventually Ashura tilted her hips and guided their bodies till her partner rested on top. They had teased and teased, and it had been fun, but she was done with that. Laying like this, his stiff, firm member was pressing against her thigh, and she wanted more. _Come on already!_

Her lips close to his ear and her hands gripping his bare behind with a firm squeeze, she arched her back and whispered to him, her tone both inviting and challenging: "Come on. Be a man!"

She could see his grin in the dim lamplight as he whispered back: "With joy, ma'am." Not quite the attitude she had been trying to summon from him, but a moment later when he eased forward and found his position –and then his rhythm– she couldn't think of a reason to complain.

 

 

* * *

As she finally waved a hand above her mirror and Xan's face faded from the surface of the glass Imoen glanced up at the ceiling, shaking her head slightly. There was a distinct, rhythmic sound of groaning wood somewhere up above the hold, as if the ship were rocking on the ocean. From time to time other sorts of groaning sounds echoed down as well.

"They always think we can't hear them," she whispered, "but then they never go far enough away. Branwen and Minsc were just like that. Khalid and Jaheira too, one night out in the woods."

"One of the hazards of adventuring," Coran suggested dryly, shrugging.

"Yup. Traveling close I guess you learn all sorts of things about yer companions, like it or not." She was hoping for a quip or something, but Coran had turned away, and was absentmindedly peering at the rim of his wine cup. He'd probably had more of the stuff than anyone else, his face flushed and his head bobbing. The elf also looked uncharacteristically morose.

_Hrm. Is it jealousy?_ She had watching Coran go after Ashura plenty of times, but then again he seemed to make a pass at _every_ woman at least once or twice. Hard to tell.

Then an odd thought occurred to her. Maybe he was morning Safana, despite the betrayal. He had certainly seemed obsessed with the pirate woman for a time. Or maybe he was just generally upset with how things had turned out. Or ( _Yick!_ ) how things had _failed_ to turn out with the Sirines.

Or maybe she was giving him too little credit. It seemed she had seen this look on the elf's face once before, when they had parted ways the last time. He was usually so puffed up about excitement and adventure, but deflated once messy reality got in the way. _Maybe he just wants to go on a straightforward adventure for once._ Something with enough danger to be exiting, but not the sort of danger that involves betrayal or armies of human enemies. In fact that was exactly the sort of adventure she would love to find as well. Great peril, great beauty, and no mind-controlling monsters or horrifying twists in between.

_Maybe some sort of hunt. Hmm._

The sounds from the captain's cabin were picking up a bit, and now Imoen thought she could hear some words. _Really shouldn't listen._ But she cocked her head a bit anyway.

"That's…oh…that's right…" _Yup_ , it was Ashura's voice. Growly as usual, but a bit throatier. "Be…a…man!"

_Oh gods!_ Blushing and burying her face in her hands, Imoen stifled a groan of her own. The incredibly-embarrassed-for-your-friend sort of groan, that is. _That settles it. Definitely time to get my revenge._

 

 

* * *

"Wake up Shura."

The voice was low, soft, and a little distant, but Ashura's eyes snapped open instantly and she propped herself up on an elbow, still entangled in Garrick's arms. Being a light sleeper was probably an advantage, out here in the wilderness. On the other hand it often kept her from getting a good night's sleep. Garrick had no such problems; he barely stirred as she shifted against him and peered out into the dimly lit cabin. He didn't even move when Ashura hissed into the darkness: "What is it?"

"Watch duty," Imoen explained. "Not letting you get away with being completely lazy tonight."

_Oh yeah._ She hadn't even thought about that when she had pulled Garrick along with her to the cabin. The ship had seemed pretty safe but they were still out in the wild. _Foolish_. Sitting up more on the makeshift bedding Ashura looked around. "Alright. I'll be down in a moment."

"I'm gonna get a few winks then," Imoen said. "It's nearly night's end, so it won't be a long shift." She seemed to be in the cabin doorway, and had her back politely turned to the two lovers. That was a relief. It was even more of a relief when Imoen disappeared below deck without a teasing word.

Garrick rolled over and groaned a bit as Ashura disengaged from his arms and sat up fully, finding her padded black doublet in the dark and slipping it over her head, then smoothing the fabric out. She rubbed her head a moment as she sat there. That wine had been stronger than she had thought, _ugh_. Next she stepped into her leggings, noticing that the thin black wool was nicked and torn in half-a-dozen places. She'd have to find some new clothes when they got back to Beregost, though they could certainly afford them now.

Next she cinched her belt around her waist. Odd. It didn't quite seem to fit right. Surely she hadn't _gained_ weight recently. If anything she looked forward to adding a pound or two when they got back to civilization and they could find some real food. Old Winthrop would have teased her about wasting away, what with all the hiking and living on nuts and dried fruit.

But as she shifted on the bedroll in search of her boots she felt more and more odd. Clumsy and slow, and the space around her was all kinds of off. The wine hadn't been _that_ strong had it?

Garrick was sitting up now, stretching his arms above his head and yawning, and Ashura realized that she could make out his features pretty clearly. The light filtering through the window and the cracks in the wall was more the faint blue of predawn than the darkness of night's end. Imoen must have let them sleep in a bit more than she had let on.

"Morning," Ashura said, then her mouth snapped closed with shock. Her voice sounded wrong.

And Garrick had noticed too. His bleary eyes suddenly bulged open, wide and clear. He let out a high pitched squeak upon seeing her, then scrambled backwards off the bedroll, his hand searching for a weapon. When his fingers closed around the hilt of his rapier he squeaked again, managing words. "Who…who are you?"

"It's me," was all Ashura could think to say. "Me. Ashura." Her hand pressed to her chest for emphases, then her mouth fell open. There was something _very_ wrong about her chest. Or two things. Missing. Her hand shot to her face. It felt the same as ever, though her hand seemed to cover more space than it should, as if it had grown. As Garrick gaped she fumbled around with her hands a bit more, eyes widening.

Big hands, a deep new voice, chest flat and extremely firm, and something below the belt that she didn't even want to think about. Maybe 'she' was the wrong pronoun to use. And the belt! Fumbling around some more she realized that it wasn't her normal swordbelt at all. More fumbling made it clear that she couldn't find a way to unfasten it.

A memory came back to her: of the ogre they had fought, and the strange transformation it had undergone when it died. And how eager Imoen had been to snatch up the magical belts it had been wearing...

"Imoen!" Ashura's new, resonant voice boomed through the ship.

 

 

* * *

_Alright. Straight face. Act like yer surprised._ Imoen's attempt at that lasted about half-a-heartbeat after Ashura stormed into the hold, wide shoulders and lanky limbs and all. Then she burst out laughing. A hand on her forehead, neck tilted back, Imoen laughed and laughed and laughed, from her belly to the ceiling of the hold. Soon Viconia, who had been sitting cross-legged on the floor, had her head back laughing as well; a more dignified, sly sound than Imoen's unabashed guffawing.

Coran simply looked on, wide-eyed with shock.

Ashura crossed her…urm…his arms over his broad, newly acquired chest. "Very funny," he growled, then twisted his head, annoyed by the deepness of his voice. He made a pretty fetching young man, with a face that was more pretty than handsome but not quite delicate looking, especially with the light scars and slightly bent nose. The curse hadn't made him bulky, just given him slightly longer limbs, corded with muscle. Looked almost like some sort of skilled acrobat, though there was no grace in the way he awkwardly held his new body.

"It sure is," Imoen managed between breaths. "Wait. How did you instantly know _I_ did urm…anything?"

Ashura rolled his eyes. "Oh come on. This is only slightly worse than Fuller and the shrinking potion. Or the conjuring wand and the frogs."

Imoen giggled at the memory of that. Big bull frogs tumbling out of every drawer and closet, and Phyladia had screamed every single time. She covered her mouth and tried to turn the giggle into a cough.

"So you've had your fun," Ashura growled impatiently, pulling at the wide belt that had wrapped snuggly around his waist. "Now how do I get this thing off?"

Imoen cocked her head and tried to look confused. "You can't? I thought it just came off."

By now Garrick was dressed and making his way down the steps to the hold, a sheepish look on his face and his hand rubbing the back of his neck. "Ahem," he coughed shyly. When Ashura turned and looked up at him he said: "I'm uh, pretty sure that's a cursed belt. You can't remove it without a priest breaking the curse."

"Ugh." Just to make sure Ashura pulled a little more. "An unremovable belt? That's going to make bathing awkward."

"Well you…urm…could probably slip clothes out from under it. Really that's the least…uh…the least awkward thing, given the circumstances." He examined the floorboards.

"True enough," Ashura grumbled, looking down at his left hand, trying to hold it steady and wiggle his fingers. With every motion his body seemed to jerk, as if he were throwing his limbs around, and every movement made the scowl on his face deepen as well.

_Aw. Never seen her look so clumsy._

"So we need a priest," Ashura muttered, then looked up at Viconia, suddenly realizing. "Oh. Can you break the curse?"

Viconia gave him an exaggerated, taken-aback look. "Whyever would I want to do that? You make such a fine male. In fact I daresay this new body," she gave him a full, unabashed look from head to toe, "is much more to my liking than the old one."

Ashura groaned. "Well, I guess I'm stuck in it until you can call for the proper prayer tomorrow, so enjoy yourself. Then can you lift the damn curse?"

"Once again," Viconia said through a mischievous smile, "I ask: whyever would I want to do that?"

"Don't make this difficult."

"But it's so much more enjoyable that way. Come male. At least beg for my assistance."

Ashura's eyes narrowed, the same ice-blue as always despite the new face. "That's not happening."

"Ah, so proud and willful. That can be enjoyable too, sometimes even more than begging. I'll tell you what, male. You need not beg." She took several bold steps forward. "I will remove the curse if you first show me what that delightful looking new body of yours can do." On those last words she reached out and traced a fingertip against Ashura's chin, a bright, inviting smile on her face.

Ashura just looked confused for a beat, then scowled again. "That's _definitely_ not going to happen."

Viconia was unperturbed. "Well, there shall be plenty of time to change your mind."

The look of shock on Coran's face had finally turned to full-blown horror. "What?" he stammered, a hurt tone in his voice. "With…him?" The 'and not me?' hung unspoken in the air.

_Well I guess he's adapted. And this is probably far enough._ "Viconia?" Imoen asked. "Do you _actually_ have the power to lift the curse?"

After a chuckle, Viconia let out a theatrical: "Hrmph," then added: "No, I must admit this sort of curse is slightly beyond me." She gave Imoen a smirk. "Must you ruin my fun child?"

"I must. So we need a high priest or something?"

Viconia's smile faded and she looked like she was choosing words carefully. "A high priestess could lift the curse, yes. Or someone under her with significant power."

_Doesn't like to admit her limits, does she?_ "Well, the Temple of Lathander in Beregost is sure to have someone powerful enough," Imoen stated. "That's just…" she couldn't help but giggle a bit, "a few days travel. And they don't charge a _huge_ amount for curse-removal."

"It's coming out of _your_ share of the pirate's treasure," Ashura snapped.

"Bah!" Imoen chuckled. "Spoilsport!"

Ashura rolled his eyes, arms crossing against his chest, followed by a wince.

"Still totally worth it." _'Be…a…man!'_ She had been thinking about waiting 'till they were closer to civilization to pull the prank, but she had just totally had to switch the belts at that point. _Our big manly, commanding leader. Ha!_ It would be expensive, but at least she'd get to milk this thing all the way back to Beregost.

 

 

* * *

"Ashura's a feminine name. Just doesn't sound right now," Imoen mused as they carefully made their way around the towering rocks and scrubby trees of the canyons.

"Asharo maybe?" Garrick suggested, voice a bit meek and eyes fixed warily on Ashura. He looked like he was expecting a smack.

"Now that just sounds weird," Imoen said. "Can't just put an O on the end of a name and call it masculine, no matter what the Amnish think."

"Yeah," Ashura growled. "Sounds like some sort of fop swashbuckler from a bad adventure story."

"You're not a fop swashbuckler?" Imoen asked. "You kind of look the part now?"

Ashura glared slightly.

After a few silent steps Imoen spoke up again. "How about Ashar? It's got a nice, harsh, simple ring to it."

"Ashar." Ashura chewed the word a bit. "Yeah, it's much better."

"Sounds like a Calishite pirate or something.’Captain Ashar!'"

Ashura chuckled, then winced. Her deep, rumbling voice was still annoying her (and she was _not_ going to start calling herself 'he!') Of course it was not nearly as annoying as walking. 'How do you walk with these…things in the way?' she had grumbled when they first set out. 'I mean, really?' She had genuinely been looking for advice from Garrick and Coran, but they were no help at all. Explained why men tend to have wide stances and take up lots of space, at least. She had always figured that was just a territorial thing, but maybe it was just practical.

"Your name would be harder to masculinize," Ashura said. "Im-o…what exactly?"

"Imonin? Nah. Hrm." Imoen rubbed her chin thoughtfully. "Maybe just Imo? Kind of a simple name I guess, like a street thug or something. Viconia's an easier one. Viconio sounds pretty silly, but I think Vico's a nice, strong name."

Viconia flared her nostrils and twisted her head at that, as if to say: _'The very thought!'_

"A short name wouldn't suit her though," Ashura noted with a grin. "Or 'him' in that case. How about 'Viconius.'"

"Oh I like that!" Imoen chirped. 'Viconius' looked even more annoyed, and the two friends burst out laughing.

It would be great to get to Beregost and be rid of this big, awkward body as soon as possible (and _Ack!_ Every so often she would take a step wrong and it would be downright painful.) Still, sometimes you have to take things in stride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I'll ever take these characters all the way to Baldur's Gate 2, but now if Ashura ever bumps into Edwina she can say: "Yeah, I got magically turned into a man once. It was kind of annoying. Now quit your whining."


	34. Scars, Old and New

_ "At times it almost seemed like the four old boys were throwing some meaningful words at each other, and perhaps getting closer for it. You'd recognized those moments cause next thing you know there'd be an awkward silence hanging in the air for fucking ages." _ –Lukin Ironfist, _Journey to the Red Divide_

* * *

They all dove into the bushes, even brave Ajantis, when the great shadow passed above the forest. It glided on segmented wings that were nearly as broad as a barn, with a solid reptilian body between.

_ A dragon!  _ That was the first thought that came to Xan as he scurried beneath branches and brambles, shielding his face with his hand. But no; peeking through his fingers he realized that it was too small, and not quite the right shape. There was something about the creature that seemed more avian than draconic, and its tail grew larger towards the end, bulbous and barbed like a scorpion's.

Not a dragon. A wyvern. Though a stab from that tail would kill Xan just as easily as any dragon's breath.

_ Ha! Dragon's breath _ . Xan chided himself for thinking such a romantic thought. If he ever met a real dragon more likely it would just flatten him with a casual swipe of its tail. Or slice him to pieces with a swat of its claws. Or break him in half with a chomp, before spitting the top portion out in disgust. Or simply send him flying with a flap of its wings. He'd break his neck when he landed, and that would be that. Dragon's breath was reserved for worthy heroes, not frail little elves.

Speaking of which, Ajantis ( _That damned suicidal fool!_ ) barely seemed to take cover at all. His shield was up as he half-knelt in the brush, the squire's sword out and pointing forward, gold and gleaming and easy to spot. The stupid boy looked prepared (Perhaps even eager!) for the circling beast to swoop down at him.

Xan tried to make himself very small by comparison, hugging his legs and pressing his bottom against the earth, as far beneath the bushes as he could go. Maybe if the flying lizard _did_ swoop down it would be satisfied with Ajantis. He was big and meaty. But then again Ajantis was also incased in metal. And didn't they always say that predators instinctively go for the weakest member of the flock? That would definitely be Xan.

Oh, he was _so_ doomed.

The wyvern only circled once, graceful and silent, then a lazy tremble ran through its wings and it banked a bit to the east. For a breath they watched it glide just above the treetops, and then it slipped out of sight. The encounter, if you could call it that, had only lasted a moment or two.

Kivan was first to stand and disengage himself from the brush. "Gone," he announced.

"Can you be sure?" Xan asked, still nervously watching the trees.

"No." But as he spoke Kivan had already started along the forest floor again, and the others felt obliged to follow.

_ So comforting.  _ He could at least _pretend_ that he has some sort of magical woodsman's sense. Clenching his teeth, Xan stood and sullenly took up the rear of their little column. His eyes shifted nervously to each rustling branch and shivering leaf above them, expecting claws and teeth and that terrible barbed tail to sweep back into view at any moment. Fortunately squirrels, birds and gentle winds were the only things that seemed to be moving the trees.

"You're like a trembling little lamb," Shar-Teel noted with a growl and a glance over her shoulder. "Pathetic."

Straightening himself up, Xan met her squinting eyes. "Yes, yes," he said, "for you it's just another stroll through the woods. I am sure you see wyverns every day."

Shar-Teel shrugged. "I'll dive down and eat a mouthful of dirt next time that thing comes swooping by, same as before. I'm not stupid. But I won't jump at shadows and rustling either. Pull yourself together."

It was a relief when she turned away and Xan could let his eyes fall to the ground. Still, the woman gave sound advice. _Pull yourself together._ He was a Greycloak after all, an officer sworn to the service of Evereska. He had taken a vow to lay down his life for the Vale and the Elders, and here he was at the back of his own team, acting like a coward.

No doubt the end of that life awaited him soon, likely somewhere in this forest. Even at his best, not full of jangled nerves, a lone, frail Greycloak would be no match for the task he had been put to. 'Investigate the tainted iron. Find out exactly who is behind it and stop them.' He and his partner had marched off with those orders like it was nothing. What fools they had been! Now he (and this handful of armed lunatics who had agreed to come along,) where up against a mercenary army and an ever-expanding conspiracy.

He would die in these woods. There was no way around it.

And there had been a time not too long ago -mere tendays really- when he had begged for death. Sobbing, snot running down his nose and shudders shaking his entire body, he had pleaded with Mulahey. _'Please! Please just kill me!'_ He had peered into those gleaming, piggy eyes and begged. And the orc had simply laughed.

The pain Mulahey had inflicted had been terrible, from the initial beatings to the lingering sting of the lash and the knives. Worse was the ceaseless ache in every muscle that came from being suspended by chains for hours (or days?) on end. Xan still felt a sharp pain in one knee every time he took a step, and there were aches in his arms when he carried any sort of weight now. Worse than the pain had been the humiliation and helplessness of it all; trapped in that dark hole at the mercy of his tormentor, laid bare in so many ways when those awful little reptiles took him down from the wall and put him on the table, sometimes on his back, or worse still on his stomach.

But worst of all had been the powerful healing spell the orc had called upon at the end of every session, when he finally got bored. Mulahey had enjoyed that part the most as well, a perverse gleam in his eye as he watched Xan's wounds shrink down to dull scars and the hope of release fade from his prisoner's eyes. Nothing had made Xan feel more helpless, and hopeless, than that demonstration that the orc had the power to make it all go on forever.

But it had not gone on forever. Xan straightened his posture and took a deep breath. That time in the dark was over. He was a Greycloak, and he had a mission. Shar-Teel was right. He had to pull himself together. And after all, he had begged for death once, not long ago. The least he could do was meet his doom with dignity.

Somehow that notion did ease his nerves a bit. Taking long breaths Xan trudged along the forest floor, the great river that cut through this part of the Cloakwood gurgling somewhere to their left as they made their way through the shade. _Better to be resigned to one's fate. And when Doom comes I shall not flinch._

A while later, when branches something came barreling through the woods towards them, Xan surprised himself by calmly drawing his sword and turning to face the noise. The source of the commotion was a large, red-coated hart, bounding over bushes in great leaps. No sooner had they fixed their eyes on the animal than it hit the ground and a shimmer ran through its body, fur flowing and becoming clothing, hooves growing into hands, and the great antlers on its head streamed back to form stringy, blonde hair.

The fur and hide outfit the man wore looked familiar, similar to the clothing of the shapeshifting druids they had fought days ago. The deer-turned-man didn't slow as he transformed either, sprinting towards them, though there seemed to be fear in his eyes rather than anger. And behind him…

Wings beating furiously, the wyvern sailed between tree trunks and over brambles, its tail curled above its body and ready to strike. "Help!" the druid managed breathlessly, fleeing directly towards Xan and his companions with the wyvern close behind.

To Xan's great surprise he kept his grip on his moonblade and stood calmly as the predator and prey approached. Perhaps it was his new resolution, but it also probably helped that this wyvern was perhaps a third the size of the one that had wheeled overhead earlier. A juvenile or some dwarf species perhaps. It also helped that his three companions, all armed and armored warriors, stood between him and the wyvern. And of course the creature seemed focused on the desperately fleeing man. Plenty of meat-shields, all told.

As time seemed to slow down and the hunted man and the wyvern drew closer, Xan's mind raced through all the spells he could bring to bear against the creature. Unfortunately he drew a blank; his enchantments and illusions were all best used on humanoids, preferably in groups. He had one trump spell prepared: a rather nasty and powerful bit of life-draining necromancy, but that was really meant for a situation where his life was in danger. So instead of throwing useless magic at the wyvern Xan just gripped his sword and softly intoned a spell of protection, the air shimmering close to his head and robes in a brief, ghostly facsimile of a helmet and studded armor before winking out.

_ Xan the bladesinger. What a joke. _

It seemed that the wyvern would overtake the fleeing man for sure, but Ajantis managed to rush forward at the last moment and place his shield between the hunter and the hunted. Curved talons and buffeting wings collided with the armored squire, a blur of flapping and scales that spun for a moment while the fleeing druid took advantage of his rescue and dove face-first onto the mossy ground.

Another violent twist and Ajantis was flung away from the creature, his sword flying from his hand as he clutched at his side and lost his footing. Xan didn't have time to see if the squire was badly wounded; the wyvern filled his view now, wings fully stretched and teeth and serpentine tongue bared with a hiss.

Kivan managed to get off a point-blank shot, the arrow sinking deep beneath the creature's wing just before it reached him and a great flap knocked him aside. At the same time Shar-Teel dove away, rolling on the ground and dodging as the wyvern swept by her. Then it was right in front of Xan, mouth spread wide.

This was it.

Perhaps his gloomy, bloody thoughts today had been a portent. Perhaps they had called Doom down upon him in the form of this beast. It did not matter now, he supposed. Xan felt eerily calm as he went through the motions of turning his body to the side, sword raised in the fencing stance the Greycloaks had drilled into him (as if you could fence with something like this!) and the beast's mouth screamed towards him, bristling with dagger-like teeth. Hopefully it would be quick.

The impact knocked Xan back a step, but though the creature bit down hard its teeth simply bounced off the invisible barrier that shimmered at his shoulder, and with a jolt its head snapped away. Still flying, the wyvern's momentum carried it along.

Time had seemed sluggish all along, but now it crawled to a standstill. Xan found himself standing beside the passing wyvern, still gripping his sword as its teeth and the horns tore past him. For just a fraction of a fraction of a heartbeat he had a clear view of the creature's neck, right beneath his outstretched sword, and all the world was still.

Everything was a blur of fury and motion too fast for the mind or eye to follow after that: the chop of Xan's moonblade, the spray of hot blood that instantly followed, and the lung-crushing impact of the wyvern's wing as it smacked into Xan's side, knocking his feet out from under him and sending him flying to the moss.

Breathless and gasping, Xan managed to push himself off the ground enough to watch as the wyvern skidded and rolled, filling the forest with a high, inhuman scream. There was blood everywhere: the creature's neck, its wings, nearby branches, and the forest floor. The moonblade must have cut deep and nicked something vital. Shuddering and snarling, the reptile righted itself, propped up on its claws.

A blur streaked by from the left, and before the wyvern could react Shar-Teel's longsword was hovering above the back of its head and slicing down. The blow nearly severed the beast's head from its neck, and it stopped moving shortly after that. "Ha!" the woman barked out, a delighted smile on her face as she looked over at Xan. "Just like the spider. I finished it off but you gave it the mortal blow first. Not bad, elf."

By now Xan was on his knees, still clutching his blood-drenched sword. Even if he hadn't been out of breath he wouldn't have known what to say. Shar-Teel offered him a hand, and after a time he took it, gasping as he was yanked to his feet. "I would have been happier if that thing had bitten your throat out and relieved me from the geas, of course," Shar-Teel explained in the same cheerful tone. "Still, nice swordwork." She clapped him on the arm for emphasis, before turning away.

The druid who had been fleeing before the wyvern was sitting up now, hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath. Between gasps he muttered a "Thank you," in the group's general direction, but there didn't seem to be anything particularly grateful about his hard eyes or weathered face. His glare sharpened when he fixed on Shar-Teel, who was sauntering casually towards him.

"Funny that we keep meeting cowardly men fleeing for their lives," Shar-Teel said as she approached the newcomer. "Is that the only sort to be found in these woods?"

The man ignored the insult and yanked a smooth hickory club from his belt. A poor weapon to go up against Shar-Teel's steels, but Xan knew that the druid could probably put all sorts of nasty enchantments on the wood. "That armor," the druid growled at Shar-Teel. "Are you Black Talon?"

Shar-Teel cocked her head. "What?" Looking down. "Oh." She gave her chest a tap and the scales clinked. "I took this armor off some dead Black Talon bitch, sure." She shrugged. "But I left the surcoat. I owe my allegiance to no one." Her lips twitched for a moment and she inclined her head slightly towards the three men. "Save this group," she amended, the words forced out. She spat on the ground immediately after.

"We seek the Black Talon mercenaries, in fact," Xan spoke up, eager to shift the conversation. "They are our foes, and we are searching for their base of operations in this forest."

The stranger nodded, still glaring. "Glad to hear. And just to say, I was not 'fleeing' the wyvern like a coward. Not exactly. Had hoped to lure the thing to my fellows across the river. Though I…might not have made it." He stood and walked towards Ajantis, who was still lying on his back, face twisted as he clutched at the wound on his side. His hands and bracers were covered in blood.

"Suppose I should be grateful," the druid continued, kneeling beside the fallen squire. "Especially to you, young man. Getting between the wyvern and me. Very brave." He reached out. "I can heal that wound, at least."

Ajantis weakly shook his head at the druid above him. His face was very red, almost the color of a beet, deep blue veins prominent. "Already closed the wound myself," Ajantis groaned. He was breathing hard, on the edge of hyperventilating. "But the…the poison…I think…"

"Ah." The stranger frowned. "Don't think I have the power to draw that out of you."

"What a dumb way to die," Shar-Teel said with a shake of her head. "Jumping in front of a wyvern's barb for some fool stranger."

Ignoring her, Xan pressed the newcomer. "You mentioned companions? On the other side of the river?"

"Aye. Was just going to suggest that." The man rubbed his hands together before placing them against Ajantis' side and murmuring a healing prayer in the same guttural language Xan had heard the shapeshifters use. "That's as stable as I can get him," the man said, standing up. "But my companions have stronger cures. I was planning on swimming across the river, kind of how I hoped to avoid becoming wyvern food. Your friend's in no condition to do that, so looks like we've got a longer trip ahead of us."

"But there is a bridge or a ford?" Xan asked.

"Aye. A good mile along the bank though, at least." The druid turned and started towards the sound of rushing water. "Come on." After a few steps the man turned and added: "I'm Laskal, by the way. And in case you haven't guessed I'm part of a circle of druids. True devotees of the Oakfather."

"I am Xanis…" He paused. "Xan." Best to give up on hoping humans could say his name without getting tongue-tied. Especially a furclad wildman from some cult of backwoods savages.

Kivan had Ajantis on his feet now. With an arm steadying the squire at the shoulder the ranger silently began to follow their new guide, Ajantis taking weak, unsteady steps beside him. After a few paces Shar-Teel groaned and stepped in on the other side, giving Ajantis a second steadying arm. Xan guessed that it was less an act of kindness and more because she found their pace frustratingly slow.

The river came into view, a good twenty paces wide and relatively slow and deep. They walked the high ground above the bank, their path clear besides a few low branches and brambles that they had to dodge.

"Where you hunting that wyvern?" Xan asked. It seemed a very undruid-like thing to do, but Laskal had said that he was trying to lure the creature.

Laskal grunted. "Could say that. Or you could say it was hunting me." A brief pause. "Perhaps you can help with the matter, if you are truly enemies of the Black Talon."

"And what do the Black Talons have to do with wyverns?" Xan asked suspiciously. The bloody world seemed full of people trying to trick or cajole you into doing their chores.

"Those that wear that armor," he inclined his head towards Shar-Teel, "came to this forest over a year ago. We tolerated them at first, but then they built a gaudy settlement in the heart of the wood and began to hunt the deer, wolves, even bears with reckless abandon. We tried to stop them and it escalated from there. And recently they struck upon a tactic that's an insult to nature itself!"

"And what is that?"

"Somehow the Black Talons have captured and trained a clutch of young wyverns to serve them. No doubt some sorcery. We have less power over wyverns than the more natural beasts of the forest, so they have been using the poor animals to attack us." Laskal shook his head distastefully. "I had hoped to lure that wyvern across the river and into our stone circle on the other side, where others of my order would use their combined power to free the creature's mind."

"Why not just kill the damn things?" Shar-Teel asked.

Laskal shrugged. "Likely it will come to that, but it would be a shame to wipe out the top predators of the forest. I won't presume that you would understand such things as the natural balance."

"Eh," Shar-Teel grunted noncommittally. "They're impressive creatures, certainly. That one nearly got rid of one of my biggest nuisances too." She flashed Xan a wicked, toothy smile. "I can see the use of an efficient predator."

The bridge was the crude but sturdy sort: a collection of logs connected lengthwise and laid upon large stone slabs above the flowing water. Its surface was wide and dry, and even with them all trudging across it didn't shake or shift beneath their feet. No wyverns swept down while they were out in the open either, though the companions kept wary eyes on the sky and treetops.

Reaching the opposite bank they veered south and followed the river once again. A long detour, all told, and Ajantis did not fare well for it. By the time the standing stones came into view he had lost consciousness and Kivan and Shar-Teel were both grunting hard as they tried to drag his armored bulk along, his boots furrowing the forest floor and then the packed dirt of the clearing. The druid's circle was an impressive sight: a towering obelisk of slightly rounded granite at the center of the clearing surrounded by a great ring of smaller stones that rested on slabs and stuck up like teeth.

Three strangers cautiously stepped out from behind the stones as they approached, two men gripping oak staves and a girl who fingered a club at her belt. Lashkal rushed ahead to greet them, pointing back at Ajantis. "This man was poisoned by a wyvern. Can one of you relieve him?"

The three definitely looked to be druids, all dressed a little differently but in a manner Xan considered savage. There wasn't a bit of stitched cloth between them, for instance; it was all fur and cured hide and patches of leather from various animals, decorated with strings of bone and a few crude gems that looked like they had simply been picked up off the ground and lightly polished.

Though she seemed to be the youngest of the group, the girl stepped forward with an outstretched hand and an air of command. Despite her youth her features were hard, emphasized by her long, angular face and what appeared to be a permanent scowl, her thick brown hair chopped short in the front to keep it out of her eyes. Her left eye was covered by a simple dark tattoo; a splotch with two curved dabs that ran down her cheekbone. "Set him down," the girl commanded softly, her voice surprisingly melodious. From her looks Xan had expected something more like Shar-Teel's snarls.

Kivan and Shar-Teel laid Ajantis down on a nearby slab and the young druid stepped in, taking a deep breath before laying a palm upon Ajantis' chest. She growled out a few words, if you could call them that, with a lot of rolling, guttural R's. Xan still was not certain if the druids used some sort of language to voice their prayers, or if they were simply imitating animals.

Either way it seemed to work. A faint green mist rose up above the druid's hands and Ajantis' chest, the cloud hanging a moment before dissipating. The clenched look left the young man's face, and he seemed to breathe easier. Opening her eyes, the druid and inclined her head and simply said: "He's cured."

"Thank you Faldorn," Laskal said. "I owed him much. He helped defend me from the Black Talon's pets." Looking over at Xan, he added: "So, do we part ways from here, or do we have a common cause?"

Xan pondered the three savage-looking humans for a moment. His mission drew him to the Black Talon settlement at the center of the forest, but he had to admit he had no idea what he'd actually do when they found it. Their little group was too small to take on the mercenary army. But perhaps if there were enough of these druids, and they wielded sufficient power, they could do more than simply locate the Cloakwood fort and scout it. Much remained to be seen, but suddenly Xan felt a bit less doomed than usual.

"Perhaps," he stated cautiously.

* * *

After a few days of walking around in the new body Ashura had gotten used to it, perhaps even comfortable, but then a new annoyance had cropped up. "Ugh," she grumbled, rubbing at her scratchy cheek, where an impressive amount of uneven stubble had collected over the past two days.

"Yeah," Garrick agreed as they walked along the forest path, the late afternoon light flittering through the leaves. "I thought about growing a beard once or twice but that phase where it's scraggly and itchy was just too much."

"A beard? On you? I can't imagine."

"I still think it might be a good idea. To look a little older and maybe get treated with more respect. Of course it wouldn't grow nearly as fast as yours. I only need to shave every three days or so. Are you part Rashemi or something?"

"No," Ashura growled, rubbing her cheek for the nine-hundredth time. "Maybe part of the curse is that it makes you extra manly."

Garrick opened his mouth, then thought better and shut it. They walked on in silence for a few moments before he spoke up again. "I could show you how to shave. Have a razor and soap and a hand-mirror in my pack."

"I already know how to shave," Ashura said, rolling her eyes.

Furrowing his brows, Garrick gave her a quizzical look. "Uh…"

Ashura shook her head. "Men!" She had to laugh, considering her rumbling voice. "I shave my legs, from time to time. In the bath. Don't need to do it often. Which is how I know I'm not part Rashemi."

"Oh." Garrick looked embarrassed. Of course over the past few days that had been his default look. "Yeah. Of course-"

Ashura cut him off. "Maybe the neck and face is a little trickier though. Could you show me?"

"Yeah." Garrick smiled. "Next time we find a stream?"

"Sure."

Again silence fell on them for a while, and once again Garrick broke it. "You know…uh…and I hope you won't smack me for saying this…"

Ashura laughed. "I won't."

"It's just funny that you've been complaining so much about the curse. Since, and please don't take this the wrong way, since you've always been so gruff and…uh…"

"Unladylike?" Ashura did smack him. Very gently on the shoulder.

"Uh. Yeah."

Ashura shrugged her broad new shoulders. "Was pretty comfortable being an unladylike girl, I guess. Then again if I had gotten turned into a dragon I'd probably be just as annoyed with the new body. It sounds nice to be a big, powerful monster, but then you're always bumping your head on things and misjudging your steps and have no idea what to do with the wings. And I can see the advantage of being a dragon. Have yet to see the advantage of being a man."

After a little silence she amended that. "Well, there is one thing. Peeing is _really_ quick and simple now."

Garrick let out an embarrassed laugh and looked away. "Ya…yeah. Guess that is an advantage."

"Seriously. You don't know how good you have it. The damn thing gets in the way the rest of the time though."

Laughing harder, Garrick seemed to give up on being embarrassed. "Tell me about it," he commiserated. "Every. Single. Morning…"

"Ugh. I know!"

Later that afternoon they did find a stream, and through more awkward laughter and a little blood Garrick helped Ashura shave the stubble away. It was good to have a smooth face again. Another day's travel or so and the rest of her…problem would hopefully be gone as well.

* * *

Once he had shrugged off his scale hauberk, Ajantis winced and pressed his hand to his side. Any stretching seemed to tear at his freshly healed wound and send stabbing pains through his abdomen. There was no avoiding it though: very slowly and carefully he bent and wriggled his way out of his shirt, trying not to pull at the injury as he continued to undress and lay his gear and clothing out upon the mossy riverbank.

When Faldorn had suggested that the group bathe before meeting with the archdruid, Xan and Ajantis had both perked up. Washing away the dried spider ichor, blood, sweat and filth that had gathered after many days of travel certainly sounded like a good idea. It had been foolish to hope that there were some sort of baths or even a spring though. _Of course_ the druids bathed in the river, and expected their guests to do the same without complaint. Still, the spot that Faldorn had led them to seemed pleasant enough, and she had insisted that they were safe here, before she and Shar-Teel had left the men and walked further along the bank and out of sight.

Here the river branched off into a wide, clear channel that looked to be about waist-deep. Thick green moss covered the banks all around the lightly flowing pool, a soft bed to lay out weapons and armor, and shaggy willow leaves kept the spot shaded from the late afternoon sun.

Testing with his toes, Ajantis found the water to be pleasantly cool. He stepped forward, standing waist-deep in the pool and examining the round, upraised gouge in his side that the wyvern's barb had left. Healing magic had been applied quickly, but it would probably leave a scar. He half-hoped it would in fact. An interesting story to tell one day; how he had wrestled with a (baby) wyvern.

Sinking until he was submerged up to his chin, Ajantis let out a happy sigh. Light splashing close by drew his attention, and he turned to see Xan taking uncertain steps into the water, his arms outstretched to balance himself as his toes sank into the mud. Ajantis' eyes widened in surprise at the sight. Without his thick robes the elf's body was about what you would expect: thin and hairless, ghostly pale, with spindly, delicate limbs. The scars were another matter though; lines and lines of upraised tissue lighter than Xan's skin that ran across his chest, his legs, hips, back, buttocks…nearly everywhere. They were light and faint, and would have been hard to notice if not for their sheer number.

Cringing, Ajantis turned away, not wishing to stare. The fact that he had always favored other men and had no interest in women was something that the Order never judged him on, but it always made bathing slightly awkward. He never wished to make his comrades uncomfortable.  


But unfortunately Kivan had just stepped into the water on the other side, and when his eyes fell upon the other elf Ajantis couldn't help but gasp in shock. In many ways the bodies of the two were a study in contrasts. Where Xan was alabaster-pale, Kivan's skin was a deep bronze. Where Xan was willowy-thin and light looking, Kivan seemed thick and solid, without a fiber to it that didn't appear to be muscle. He was taller and broader than Xan as well, and while Xan's face was smooth and almost feminine, Kivan's looked tired and weathered and worn beneath the hood he always wore.

But both of their bodies were covered with scars.

Though, as Ajantis gaped and stared a heartbeat longer he realized that those were a study in contrast as well. The marks across Xan's skin were all small, well-healed lines. Kivan's flesh was downright mangled in places, with great swathes of once-bronze skin that had obviously been torn away and grown gnarled as it healed over. One of his nipples was completely missing, along with a chunk of his chest, and the other was bisected by a long scar. There were obvious signs that many ribs and the bones of one arm had been broken and poorly set, and no part of his anatomy had been spared from the riot of gouges and pits and raised marks, even his…

Ajantis looked away, eyes straight forward. There was more soft splashing, and then an uncomfortable silence fell over them, the lazy trickling of the channel and the deeper rushing of the river the only sound for a long time. Eventually Ajantis couldn't stand the silence, and found himself blurting out a question that could have been for either of the elves: "Where you in lots of battles?"

In the baths at the Radiant Heart Ajantis had seen plenty of scars, often worn by men who were happy to tell the tale of which battle they had earned them in. Master Keldorn had more than anyone else, though he disliked all the bragging. 'Just reminders of old mistakes,' was about all the old knight would say about the lines on his own weathered body.

"No," Kivan simply stated. "Torture." There was more splashing from him now as he scrubbed himself, ignoring Ajantis' discomfort.

"Same here," Xan said. "Though, seeing you my friend," he told Kivan, "I think I may have gotten off easy."

Kivan grunted. "There's no 'easy.'"

"Quite true." To Ajantis he said: "I'm sorry. I suppose the scars can be a bit shocking."

Ajantis looked up and met Xan's gaze. "It's fine. It was just a surprise. Those look like old scars?"

Xan shook his head. "Alas. That's the worst of it. It was quite recently, about a month back, that I was being held by a servant of the same enemies we chase today. He was a priest of Cyric, and he healed my wounds each time he was done having his fun with me, so that he could begin again the next day."

"Gods! That's horrible."

Xan simply nodded and his sad eyes returned to the surface of the water. _Well that explains why he's so morose._ Ajantis found himself wondering if the Greycloak had been a completely different sort of person before his imprisonment. "I'm so sorry," was all he could manage to say.

"He's dead now." Xan shrugged. "A small comfort, but that's that. And the wounds are well healed at least."

"Mine came from bullwhips," Kivan spoke up. "If you wish to know."

Ajantis turned to him and waited. His code said much about the importance of helping people, and perhaps just listening was the proper thing to do here, though he wished he had not gasped.

"It seemed to be Tazok's favorite form of torture," Kivan continued.

"Lashes, yes," Xan said with a nod. "Simple and unimaginative, but very painful."

Kivan nodded as well. "I'll spare you the details on how they gave me each scar, but this one has a story." He held out his hands, palms forward. One was uninjured and smooth, but the other hand had a round, ugly indentation in the center, surrounded by raised tissue. "The ogre ordered that I be nailed up between two logs and left hanging as an example. You may have seen bodies displayed like that at his camp. Deheriana had already faded by then, she could not endure what they did to her, but they nailed her body up just the same and I was to be placed beside her.

"I thought all my strength was gone, but after the man drove the first nail into my hand Shevarash gave me the strength to fight back, and I managed to snatch the hammer from the man and kill him with it. It was night and no one saw. I pried the nail out and escaped." With that he grew silent, peering down at his palm.

"Shevarash?" Ajantis asked cautiously.

"The god of vengeance," Xan stated.

"He answered my prayer that night," Kivan said, "and when I slay Tazok, the Black Archer shall have his due."

It was the largest number of words Ajantis had ever heard Kivan put together, by far. Now he wished the wild elf had remained silent. Still, Ajantis found himself responding. "I hope we find Tazok, and make him pay." He cringed a bit as the words left his mouth. Revenge was not the way of the Radiant Heart. His tutors had been very clear about that, endlessly drilling the difference between vengeance and justice into him.

Still, looking at Kivan and all that raw, upraised flesh, along with the faraway look in his eyes as he peered down at his own hand, Ajantis couldn't help but mean it. In that moment he truly hoped that they would find Tazok, and he was ready to make the ogre pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on pronouns: I opted to describe gender-bent Ashura as 'he' when she's shown from other people's perspective and 'her' in the portions from her perspective. The people living in the medieval-magic-land of Faerune probably aren't all that aware of transgender issues.


	35. Wyvern Tamers

" _And though the roar shook the very heavens_

_The bastard's blade, he could not release_

_To turn is death, to falter would doom him_

_He kept his eyes trained sharp on the beast"_

_-_ Unknown Bard, _Avorock and the Dragon_

 

* * *

A fuzzy sensation ran through Ashura's body and she couldn't help but shiver. The shiver was followed by a sense that a great weight had been lifted away as the belt unfastened and went slack, hanging from her hips. _Wider hips_ , she noticed, a pleased smile on her face as she ran her hands down her sides. One hand slipped down to the front of her leggings and the other to her chest, eager to make sure that her body was truly back to normal and ignoring how incredibly uncomfortable the priest of Lathander looked. The young, bookish-looking man, cringed, examined the vestibule ceiling, and blushed a bit.

_Sticking out in the right spots now, and none of the wrong ones_ . _Good!_ Wriggling completely out of the belt, she held it at arm's length. She turned to the priest, and gave a hearty: "Thanks."

He looked down from the ceiling and inclined his head. "You're uh...welcome."

"So what about this thing?" she asked, keeping the wide belt pinched between two fingers and eyeing it warily.

The priest looked thoughtful. "If my power had fully destroyed the curse the girdle would have been destroyed as well, so likely the curse is just suppressed. These objects can be tricky things, as you well know. In fact, if I'm not mistaken this is the very girdle that Duke Lobelahn's court jester once gave to the duke's mistress as a prank. They say the poor man was beheaded, and the cursed thing has been floating around the region ever since."

Imoen shook her head. "How humorless of 'em."

"So the belt is still cursed?" Ashura asked.

"Aye," the priest said solemnly. "My order can store it somewhere safe, at least, if we cannot destroy it."

Turning towards Imoen, Ashura suddenly lunged, shoulders lurching and arms springing forward.

"Yipes!" Imoen squeaked, dodging and dancing away along the wall of the vestibule.

Ashura didn't follow through on the motion. Instead she just chuckled. "It's mine now. Better watch out." She faked another lurch and once again Imoen jumped. "Or maybe I ought to save this thing for Viconia next."

Imoen giggled. "Better watch out. She'd take it as serious as Duke Lobelahn."

"Or Coran. Would love to set 'Corana' loose in a tavern, have him see it from the other side."

"Ha! Maybe he'd look in a mirror and fall in love with himself...er...herself."

"Ahem," the priest interrupted, no humor on his face at all. "We're in the business of curing maladies here, _not_ facilitating your childish pranks."

"Yes yes," Imoen said, still giggling a little. "I promise you won't see us again on account of the belt. Right Shura?"

"Right."

The priest had his hand out now and was glaring at her. "I think it would be best if the temple stored that somewhere safe."

Twisting her lip a bit, Ashura looked down at the belt. It seemed kind of a shame to throw such a novel magical item away, curse or no. And there were probably people who wouldn't see it as a curse at all, provided they had a choice in the matter of putting it on.

In the end she shrugged and dropped the belt into the priest's hand, where he carefully bunched it up and placed it into a pocket of his robe. He gave her an appreciative nod.

As they stepped out of the little vestibule beside the domed temple of Lathander Ashura turned to her friend and spoke. "Wish you'd be more careful about throwing around my real name."

"What? Oh yeah." Imoen frowned. "I'd about forgotten. Hopefully the bounty hunters have too. Or maybe the reason for the bounty has uh…passed or something? We haven't seen any sign of people being after you in a while."

"Hope you're right."

"And hey, least I always shorten yer name!"

Beyond the stony path in front of the Song of the Morning Temple lay the now familiar streets of Beregost. Ashura stopped, lifted herself on her toes and stretched her arms high in the air, taking a breath. She felt relieved; lighter. Technically she probably was.

"What's our next stop boss?" Imoen asked.

"The nearest tailor shop."

Imoen let out a mock-squeal. "Eeee! Clothes shopping! How very girly of you. I'm gonna miss Mr. Ashar."

Ashura snorted. "Yeah yeah yeah." Teasing or not, she was looking forward to replacing her two sets of torn traveling clothes. Maybe even buy a third. They had pirate gold to spare, after all.

 

* * *

It was not quite the army Xan had been hoping for, but you work with the tools that you are given. He would also have preferred that the archdruid lead them in this little battle. The old man had bristled with power and a sense of command when they had met with him the night before, but it seemed he was content to sit at the top of his tree-tower and issue orders.

Izefia and Takiyah, two of the druids they had met at the stone circle, crept ahead of the rest of the group, making no sound and somehow not disturbing a single leaf or branch as they passed. Kivan followed closely behind, taking low, casual strides and dodging the dense foliage. Xan had no idea how they did it. He tried, but he and Ajantis managed to blunder into every other branch, and Shar-Teel seemed to take pleasure in bulling her way through, snapping off twigs and crunching the leaves beneath her boots.

The older-looking druid, Izefia, turned slightly and raised a cautioning hand. Takiyah immediately crouched and the two fanned out through the brush. The rest got down as low as they could and crept forward. Before them the ground rolled down, and the side of the next hill was all of jagged rocks, bearded with green moss and lichen. Between some of the stones there was a wide, dark gap: the entrance to a natural cave.

They stared down in silence for a moment, then Xan stifled a gasp when he noticed movement on the rocks. A tail uncoiled, wings stretched out, and a horned head lazily rose up, swiveling this way and that as if it were sniffing. Beside him Xan heard a faint metallic keen as his companions instinctively slid their blades from their sheaths. Kivan placed an arrow to his bowstring as well, though he did not draw it back.

The adolescent wyvern tilted its head back for one more sniff, and then it hissed at the air and its wings puffed out before tucking in. With a sudden motion it turned and slithered down the rocks, slipped through the mouth of the cave, and vanished from sight.

_So much for the element of surprise._ As if there had been any doubt.

Silence and tension followed as they all watched the cave. The moments hung, nothing happened, and then they all gasped at the sound of rustling very close by. Brush parted right in front of Xan as a shadowy form rose from the ground, seeming to appear from nowhere. He thought he noticed a few scales on the figure before it flowed into the soft skin and rough hides of Faldorn, the young druidess. Perhaps she had been in the form of a snake.

After giving the cave a stern, backwards glance Faldorn spoke, her voice low and soft. "There are five humans in total, four within the cave and one near the entrance. A lookout. He's very alert now. They have near as many young wyverns. Four, counting the one that sniffed you out."

"Lovely," Xan muttered.

"The man who seems to have tamed the wyvern is tall and blonde. Named Peter. There is another man who they appear to take orders from, named Lakadaar. I would aim for these pack-leaders first. All five wear scaled armor, and the Black Talon mark upon their breasts." With those last words she scowled.

_Good advice_ , but in Xan's experience no one ever told you their name and rank in the middle of a battle. He glanced around at the others. "I suppose we should formulate some sort of plan. We may be able to eliminate the lookout even though he knows we are…" He paused _._ "Where's Kivan?"

The snap of a bowstring nearby answered his question, followed up swiftly by another. Shaking his head, Xan gripped his moonblade and searched for signs of movement in the brush near the cave. Hopefully that fool wild elf had at least killed the lookout.

And now on to battle, plan or no.

Before Xan could think or say anything further there was an explosion of movement at the entrance of the cavern. From the darkness a young wyvern bust into view and unfurled its wings, followed by another. Then another. The enemy had made their first move it seemed: _'Release the hounds.'_

Xan was halfway through the enchantment before he fully realized what he was doing. He flung his fingers forward and spoke the last words, a faint orange globe crackling into existence and flying towards the lead wyvern.

The creature had its wings tucked and was diving directly towards their position on the hill, but when the globe reached it there was a burst and a waver in the air that made it hesitate. Arresting its movement with a flap of its wings, the creature hovered for a moment, curiously swiveling its head and sniffing. The wyvern just behind the first was struck by the shimmer as well, and promptly swerved to the left, diving towards a patch of distant trees and crashing through the branches and out of sight.

Sadly, the third wyvern plowed right through the spell, unaffected and focusing its predatory eyes directly on them. Its tail was curled fully over its body, mouth open in a hiss, and as it neared it tucked its wings in. Ajantis was there to meet it, shield swinging up to catch and turn the barb aside. He managed to twist as they collided, barely avoiding the wyvern's snapping jaws. As they passed he swung his sword down; an awkward, glancing blow. The wyvern's claws skidded along the ground and it whirled to strike at the armored man again.

With a hop Shar-Teel danced in at the wyvern's flank, delivering a fierce chop with her whole body that bit into the trunk of its tail and went more than halfway through. There was a quick spurt of blood, then the rest was a blur to Xan as the massive reptile lashed out, turning and kicking and biting; the armored humans at its front and back trying to keep up.

The three druids had rushed down the hill, and now they were standing at the low point, arms aloft and chanting in unison beneath the hovering wyvern. They looked vulnerable out there, but the skin of each druid had taken on the rough texture and brown tone of tree bark; the mark of a common defensive spell that Xan recognized. If they could truly turn the wyvern then perhaps…

A familiar crackle bit through the air, and Xan cringed as he watched three missiles arch out from the cavern mouth, trailing white dust that sparkled in the sunlight. _Those damned ice arrows the Black Talon are so fond of_. One struck a tree with a harmless shattering sound, but the other two found their marks. Faldorn's chanting turned into a gasp and then a snarl as one of the arrows hit her arm, though it bounced off her skin.

Izefia was less fortunate. His legs buckled the moment the arrow sank squarely into his back, and only a faint, misty gasp left his lips as he lost the chant and toppled over.

Xan was moving now, keeping his head low as he rattled through the brush and down the hill. He had a protective spell active that would hopefully block any arrows, but not being spotted was always better. If he could just find the archers and get a little closer…

_There!_ Two of the Talons were standing in plain sight right by the cave entrance: a dark haired man and a scrawny-looking woman, both dressed in scale armor that had seen better days. Xan circled and pushed through the brush a few more steps, until he judged that the mercenaries were within shouting distance. They had both knocked arrows and were drawing back for another volley.

With a deep breath Xan stood and bellowed, eyes fixed on the woman: "I _suggest_ you realize that Lakadaar is trying to kill you!"

Not the most subtle way to use that spell, but it had the desired effect. The mercenary's eyes grew wide and she turned completely around, dashing into the cave as she aimed at something. Hopefully her commander. Perhaps it does pay off to know the enemy's names. Shouts rang from inside, and the remaining mercenary glanced around bewildered, before taking aim at Xan.

By then Xan had dived back between the thick bushes and saplings, trying to make himself as small a target as possible. His efforts at dodging failed horribly, but the protection spell did not, and with a hiss and crackle the ice arrow bounced off the barrier and fell away harmlessly.

Something crashed through the undergrowth beside him and Xan turned. Shar-Teel was a blur as always, running in the opposite direction. In a blink she reached the Black Talon and her sword caught his bow just as it thumped. Her blow sent the arrow off course and past her shoulder. At the same time her knife swung in and caught the mercenary in the throat, releasing a light spurt of blood as the blade went in and a messier splash when she twisted and ripped it out.

By then Xan had turned around and was cautiously creeping back towards the cave. No retreating now, with his companions pushing forward. There were still sounds of commotion inside, and while the momentum of battle was still with them it would be good to add to that commotion.

It was funny. Xan had always been a very tidy, serious lad, endlessly teased by his brother and sister for it. But these days it seemed that chaos was his greatest ally most of the time; the sort of chaos his spells could call down on his enemies at least. He began to weave his fingers through the air.

Kivan and Ajantis had closed in on the cavern now, and there was no sign of the two baby wyverns that had been flying around a moment ago. Hopefully between Xan's _confusion_ spell and whatever it was the druids had done the creatures had flown off and would stay away.

Before the rest of the group could act Xan finished his spell, fingers guiding the last strands of light and shadow together to form the image of a great brown bear; just small enough to conceivably fit through the entrance. The illusion silently moved its legs in a mimicry of a charge, but when it dove through the cavern's mouth Xan added the sound of scuffing claws and a great roar. As soon as the bear was out of sight he waved his sword forward. "Let's go," Xan found himself commanding, though his voice was more breathless and weary than inspiring.

Shar-Teel snorted, nodded and just said "Aye!" And as one they all charged into the cave and into the chaos.

 

* * *

The Jovial Juggler seemed to have become their natural home whenever they were in town. Not that Imoen objected. Feldpost's was far too stuffy, overpriced, and full of snobs, the Burning Wizard was a bit on the cramped and shabby side, and she and Ashura were likely still not welcome in the Red Sheaf.

In contrast the Juggler felt just right: clean but lively, with drink that wasn't watered down, food that was decent if not gourmet, comfortable beds and even dancing on the taproom floor most evenings. They had stopped in just in time for a late highbite, and after making arrangements for some of the finest rooms in the house ('royal suites,' the innkeep called them,) they each purchased a steaming plate of mutton with creamed potatoes and spiced cabbage.

Imoen dug into the pile of food with zeal, relieved to finally eat something hot _and_ soft ( _Blech!_ She was so sick of dried nuts!) Good to enjoy some luxuries, and double-good to know you can afford them, she figured. On top of the pirate's treasure and the pearls they had taken from the sirines they had earned a surprisingly tall pile of coins turning in the bounty for the mad cleric. If they wanted to they could probably live comfortably in Beregost for a good long while now.

Not that Imoen intended to do that. She had told Xan she would help him, and meant it. He seemed intact enough, wandering through the Cloakwood and trying not to get stung by wyverns last she had heard, but still.

Ashura had said they would come help Xan with his mission too, as Imoen recalled, though it had been in a half-assed, noncommittal way. Probably a subject best broached tomorrow, after they had gotten some rest. Let everyone enjoy themselves first, before thinking 'bout the next 'adventure.'

Apparently Garrick didn't have the same notion. "So what next?" he asked cheerfully.

Imoen looked up from her sparklingly clean plate.

"We enjoy our good fortunes for a few days before even _thinking_ about 'next,'" Ashura said with a shrug. "Least that's my vote."

"I quite agree," Viconia said as she thoughtfully speared a potato with her fork, her other hand holding down the cloth that usually covered her face so she could eat. "I for one look forward to spending as much time on a soft bed as possible. They have been few and far between."

"Spose that means you're sticking with us?" Imoen asked.

Viconia inclined her head. "As I have said, I will follow and assist as long as you will have me. Before my rescue there were _no_ soft beds to speak of. And the company of humans keeps suspicious eyes off me, mostly."

"Well, I'm just glad," Imoen said, scooting her chair back and smiling. "You've been a great help." She turned from the table and sought out Coran, who had gotten up sometime while she was inhaling her food. The wood elf stood at the far side of the room, peering at the wall that was covered with nailed up papers: announcements, broadsheets and bounty notices.

Imoen dodged past patrons on stools and made her way towards the other side of the taproom. When she reached Coran she peered past him. "Which one ya readin'?"

The elf tilted his head round and gave her a lazy smile. "Drizzt and the Two-Hundred Gnolls, of course." He jabbed a fingertip at one of the broadsheets. "I missed a few chapters while we were treasure hunting."

Squinting and bending forward, Imoen peered at the script. "Sheesh. Chapter forty-eight, and he's _still_ fighting his way to the troll king?"

"There've been a few dramatic twists and turns, but yeah." Coran chuckled. "Whoever writes this sure loves their fight-scenes."

Imoen pointed at a different leaf of paper. "Oh! This one's interesting. A warning that a pack of wolves have taken up residence in the ruins of Ulcaster's School, and are killing anything that comes nearby. And a call for 'brave heroes' to clear the ruins out, for a small reward."

"Wolves?" Coran asked incredulously. "In Tethyr we hunted those as children."

"Well, they seem to be some sort of monstrous wolves. Though the bounty isn't really clear what kind. Direwolves? Worgs? Werewolves? Whatever it is, it sounds like an adventure."

"Well, you know me. I can't turn down a good adventure," Coran smiled wistfully. "And the urge to travel will hit me soon, no doubt. Perhaps we should look into Ulcaster's." After a pause he smirked and added: "Of course before then there is plenty of adventure to be-"

"-had in your bed? Yeah, I know."

"I just wasn't sure if-"

Imoen cut him off again. "Oh I've heard all your lines. A couple hundred times. Seen all yer tattoos too."

"And yet-"

"Oh look'it this one!" Imoen stabbed her finger against another bounty notice that had been obscured by an advertisement. The word 'Cloakwood' had especially caught her eye. "Quite a high bounty. Says they're killing lots of cattle on the farms just north of Beregost."

Coran's look of annoyance at being rebuffed soon turned into a broad smile. "Wyverns! Now _there's_ a worthy thing to hunt. Far better than wolves."

"Wait. It's pronounced ' _wi-vern?_ '" Imoen asked. "I always thought it was ' _why-vern_.'"

Coran shrugged. "That's how we pronounced it. We hunted them in my youth as well."

Quirking an eyebrow, Imoen asked: "Killed one when you were only five or something?"

A hearty laugh. "Hardly. I helped carry spears and nets with the rest of the young, while the older hunters of my village did the work. Twas quite a sight though. I always wanted the honor of putting the final arrow into one of those great beasts."

"Apparently Xan's already killed a wyvern," Imoen said in a teasing tone. "Out there in the Cloakwood."

"Really now?" Coran laughed in a disbelieving tone. "Did he whine at it til it was suicidal?"

"Said it was a baby, and wounded, but he managed to chop it with his moonblade. Told me 'I was just as surprised as you, to still be alive.'"

Coran snorted. "I suppose I can believe that. Those weapons can perform impressive feats even in the hands of shrimp like Xan. Just so long as he doesn't put an arrow through the eye of a grown wyvern. I want that honor."

"Ha! You like the idea?"

"Of a wyvern hunt? Most definitely!"

 

* * *

Shadows writhed and clashed on the flickering walls of the cave, accompanied by incoherent echoes and puffs of flying dirt. Chaos still seemed to be on Xan's side, but as he pressed his back to the stone he felt that their relationship was getting iffy at best. His moonblade was out as usual, though he hoped the melee wouldn't come to him. Best to just throw in helpful spells.

A blast of prismatic color blinded one of the mercenaries when he got too close for comofort. While the man was rearing back Xan followed through with a fear-spell, but the mercenary seemed to shake it off. It just made him angrier really, but luckily his wild sword-chops came nowhere close.

The illusory bear had caused much commotion at first, but now it was swiftly falling apart into smoky whiffs, the enemy wise to the fact that it was not real anyway. The fading image still growled and clawed a bit, but its motions weren't nearly as fast and frantic as those of the remaining baby wyvern. Just like before, Shar-Teel and Ajantis had on the beast, and they seemed to make a good team. The boy wielded his shield with as much skill as his sword, batting away each jab from the creature's tail and facing its front.

At the same time Shar-Teel's terrifying speed kept pace with every turn of the creature's body, flanking and cutting. Loose dirt flew as the wyvern kicked, until Shar-Teel had its legs flayed and bloody and they failed beneath it, giving Ajantis an opening to drive his sword through its skull.

While the wyvern thrashed at the center of the cave Kivan traded blows with a blonde man who must have been Peter the Wyvern Tamer. In the close quarters the ranger had abandoned his longbow and was swinging his halberd about his body, the oaken staff jabbing at Peter's feet in an attempt to trip while the axeblade rang against the Black Talon's longsword. They both moved faster than Xan could follow, feet hopping and weapons a blur.

Lifting his free hand, Xan took aim and a breath for his next spell. He could slow Kivan's opponent down, at least. As the incantation began, the man Xan had stunned with the light-spell blundered towards Kivan from behind, still slashing blindly but getting within reach. One slash looked like it would get lucky, but Kivan seemed to sense it and ducked, tucking his body in and slamming the butt of his halberd into the man's stomach.

The blow sent the Black Talon reeling backwards in Xan's direction. Stumbling, he turned and blinked. There was a flash of recognition and then hatred in the man's eyes as he loomed over the elf, and all of a sudden his blade wasn't swinging blindly.

Holding his ground and ignoring his terror, Xan chanted the last syllable of the spell, releasing it point-blank. The fierce overhand swing the mercenary had begun grew loose and lazy as torpor overcame him. Instead of a blinding flash Xan watched the blade arch and descend, down down down. He stepped aside easily and put all the strength he could muster into a parry, knocking the gentle slash aside. Slow as a dream, the mercenary stumbled and his arm went back and up.

Xan followed through with a lunge. The moonblade seemed to pull his arm along of its own accord, finding an opening at the mercenary's armpit and piercing flesh. It slid through muscle and between bone, practically sheathing itself in the man's torso as his eyes widened in shock.

With a startled gasp Xan yanked his sword out and stumbled back into the cave wall, blood splattering his face and robes as he lifted the sword and got ready to parry. Instead of attempting another strike however, the Black Talon simply stood there briefly, then his knees knocked and he collapsed in a heap.

At some point two wolves had charged into the cave, one pitch black, and the other amber-brown. The black wolf was on top of the blonde mercenary now, violently shaking his limp head from side to side with jaws firmly clamped to his neck. Kivan had taken a step back and was leaning on his halberd, catching his breath. None of the enemy was moving, it seemed.

Nearby Shar-Teel also gasped for breath, half-squatting beside the dead wyvern with the pommels of her blades against her knees. Looking over at Xan she gave him a toothy leer and once she could speak she shouted: "Now I think you're just _trying_ to impress me elf!"

"Wha-what?" Xan stammered.

She pointed at the still body by his feet. "You got their leader. Looks like it was clean through the heart too. Nice."

Xan's lip quivered and he glanced at his sword. "I assure you, the last thing on my mind was impressing _you._ "

"Uh huh." She gave Xan a sharp wink.

_Sweet Selderine! This really is her way of flirting isn't it?_ He considered keeping his moonblade permanently sheathed, despite how handy it had come in lately.

Releasing the dead man's mauled neck, the black wolf leaned back on its haunches and shook its body. As the fur rustled a mirage-like waver ran over the wolf, and it grew taller and thinner, taking the form of a dark haired woman. Faldorn didn't bother to wipe the blood from her face before she spoke. "That is all of the Talons, I believe." The other wolf padded over and sat at her feet, where she gently rubbed it behind the ears. Xan noticed Takiyah, standing near the entrance of the cave. Apparently the second wolf was just a wolf.

"There's still the wyverns out there." Xan pointed out.

"Perhaps." Faldorn sounded unconcerned. She turned towards the cavern's opening and began to walk, her wolf at her heels, and the other druid fell in line behind them.

At Shar-Teel's insistence the three searched the cave and the dead mercenaries for valuables. A worthwhile notion actually; along with coins they found a fair number of enchanted arrows for Kivan and some much-needed healing potions.

Soon the close quarters and butcher's shop smell that the cave was developing grew too much for Xan, and he hobbled out into the sunlight long before the others were done with their search. He would be happy to never set foot in another cavern again, truly. Or on another battlefield. The stench of voided bowls that followed a fight was something best gotten away from quickly.

_Ah._ And fresh air was far preferable to coins. In the forest ahead Faldorn and Takiyah stood over Izefia's unmoving form, faces grim. As Xan had suspected the older druid was dead, though one casualty for a battle with wyverns and armored archers did not seem too bad to him. And perhaps if that fool ranger had waited for them to formulate a plan-

Xan's thoughts were interrupted by a mighty flap and the rush of air. Wide eyed and slack-jawed, he looked up to see the great wyvern swoop between the treetops and alight upon the forest floor, mere paces from the druids. It was at least three times the size of the creatures they had fought, fierce and fully grown. _So much for light casualties!_

With a crunch the wyvern stepped forward, tail curled so its barb was just above its horns. Takiyah stumbled backwards and fell on his behind, but Faldorn kept her feet planted firmly, head tilted up to meet the great reptilian eyes and face still smeared with bandit's blood. The wyvern bent its neck until its snout was a few feet from the druidess, barring its teeth and letting out a hiss. With a sharp nod of her head Faldorn growled a few words back in reply. They were words that Xan felt he recognized from arcane study, though he sensed no magic. _Was that draconic?_

The wyvern hissed again, then reared back and let out a cry that shook the leaves. There was rustling nearby, and the two young wyverns Xan had hoped were driven off marched out into view, one behind the other. Next, the great wyvern's neck struck down like a snake's, its jaws open. With terrifying speed it latched onto Izefia's corpse and reeled back on its feet, flapping its wings and rising from the ground.

Faldorn's hair waved in the wind, and she rocked a bit, but remained upright. The wyvern wheeled up into the air above the trees, followed by the two smaller creatures, the limp body in its jaws bobbing all the while. Then they were gone.

"It is good that she was content to leave with the meal and her children," Faldorn said, not the slightest hint of fear in her voice. The firm conviction of a religious fanatic, Xan realized. "Good too that the winds blow from the southwest, and your companions who are drenched in wyvern blood were still in the cave. If she had smelled them she may have reconsidered."

"Yes," Xan breathed. "Very good."

 

* * *

They rode into Beregost with the early morning mist, four sturdy horses and four men atop them. A rough looking bunch, even the gnome, who was bald and scarred and wore a long black beard over his sharp features. Eyes sharp too, and constantly sweeping. There was a thick, burly dwarf as well, and the other two were humans, tall and broad and armored beneath their cloaks.

The handful of pedestrians going about their morning chores scattered before the riders, but Golin Vend wasn't quite fast enough, what with his mule determined to take things at her own pace. He sighed to himself when he saw that the riders were heading his way. _Ah well_. It usually fell on him to give directions to strangers. He just wished those strangers were the friendlier sort.

One of the men pulled his horse to a stop right up close. He looked a hardened warrior, a longsword at his hip and fancy chainmail across his chest, dusted a bit from travel. Made Golin real nervous when the man reached for his belt, near the hilt of that sword, but he simply drew out a rolled up parchment. Unfurling it, the man waved the paper before Golin's eyes. There were words there, along with a sketch of a young woman's face, framed by straight black hair.

"Seen this woman?" the man simply asked.

Golin squinted. Really she looked fairly plain. Could be anyone.

"Wears armor. Carries two swords. Travels with a redhaired girl."

Recognition flashed in Golin's eyes, too quick for him to hide it.

"You have then?" Steel gleamed in the early morning light as the warrior drew his sword partway from its well-oiled scabbard. "Speak up then. Or do I need to jog your memory with steel?" No more doubt what sort these were.

Golin's hands shot up, palms wide and surrendering. "No. Please. I haven't seen her recently…" A few more inches of steel appeared. "But…but she's come through town a few times. Always stays at the Jovial Juggler Inn. She could be there now for all I know."

"Where is this inn?"

He pointed down the street and stammered out a few directions. It was a great relief when the man slipped his sword back into the sheath and turned his horse, leading his party south into town. A relief for him at least.

Golin shook his head as the men trotted away and he went back to guiding his mule. Those poor girls.


	36. The Importance of Armor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning that there's a sex scene towards the beginning of the chapter.

_ "I'll not sit here stewing a moment longer waiting for death. I say we go out there and  _ find _him ourselves!"_ –King Duar Obarskyr, just before the charge at the Battle of Stagshead

* * *

Rustling sheets and warm, shifting skin greeted Ashura as she awoke, blinking up at an unfamiliar ceiling. In the faint blue light she could just make out the polished boards high above, and when she tilted her head she recognized Garrick's features on the pillow beside her, angelic in sleep. It took a little more blinking for it all to come back to her: a 'Royal Suite,' one of two such rooms that they had rented at the very top of the Jovial Juggler. She had fallen into bed with Garrick once again, celebrating the end of their odd little adventure, and Imoen and Viconia had taken the other suite on the other end of the long hall. Hard to tell what time it was; predawn at the earliest, or perhaps it was just bright moonlight that wafted through the open window.

As Ashura shifted a bit, Garrick slid away and onto his back. Rolling over, she gave him a long, pondering look. It had been a fun celebration, the night before, but she wasn't certain that it was anything but that. Really, it seemed they kept falling into bed together because it was easy and simple and familiar.

_ My reliable little puppy, always at my heel it seems.  _ It _had_ been a fun celebration though.

After a time she noticed that the dim light was gleaming off of Garrick's slitted eyes. She smiled at him and he gave her a sheepish grin. "Morning," Ashura whispered.

"Is it?" Garrick asked, stretching out lazily on his back and yawning a little. "Have the rosy fingers of dawn come to pluck me out of bed?"

Ashura rolled her eyes slightly at the cliché line from a poem. "Sun's not up yet. Plenty of time to laze about." Rocking a little against him, she slid her hand across his stomach and beneath the sheets. Down and down her fingers went, until they curled and she had 'Little Garrick' well in hand. Stiff as it got, it felt like. Her fingers toyed a bit.

_ Every single morning. Just like he said _ . With a sleepy look and a breathy sigh, Garrick shifted a bit and Ashura did too, climbing over and up until they were chest to chest, nose to nose, her hand still between them.

"You've got something between your rosy uh…fingers," Garrick breathed.

Pressing a fingertip against his lips, Ashura shook her head. "Like I keep saying: stop trying to be a poet."

A theatrical pout appeared on his lips. "But that's my job." His fingertips stroked gently through her hair before finding and tracing their way along her shoulder blades and down the hollow of her back.

"Think you're more an instrument man." She brushed her lips against his briefly. "Good with your instrument too. Should stick to that." There was a gentle sound of skin sliding against skin and soft breathing as they moved together and she climbed and adjusted a bit. After a few moments of teasing she found her way properly on top of his hips, and soon caresses became strokes and squeezes; soft breaths became laughter and little gasps.

She climbed up a bit more, thighs gripping his hips, and the soft rustle became the creek of the bed, her playful touch becoming a firm grip as her palms pressed to his chest and shoulders. Her hips rocked up and down.

Straining and gasping, Garrick tilted his head back, gripping her hips and sliding beneath her, trying his best to follow her rhythm. She climbed and climbed, and for a long time as the faint light grew they searched together for the peak.

It was long after they found that peak that Garrick's breathing grew even, lying beneath her, their bodies entwined. Ashura's arms were comfortably curled under his now, chest to chest, and once Garrick had caught his breath his hands returned to the task of playfully tracing their way along her back.

Perhaps Ashura dozed off for a few moments, because it was properly dawn when she opened her eyes again. Somehow she doubted it. She felt far too giddy and awake. It was a fine way to start the morning.

Climbing up, she threw back the sheets and set her feet on the carpet, padding over to the water basin to wash up a bit. _Ah_ , it was good to be back in her usual, comfortable body. Good to be able to pounce upon Garrick like that again too. She had to admit she had missed that.

After a little washing and a sip of the drinking water she walked to the center of the room and dug her toes into rich Calishite carpet, reaching for the ceiling and stretching for a few breaths, then down to touch her toes. Maybe with some time and effort she could have gotten used to the bulky male body, even found some advantage to it, but this was fine and familiar. The perfect amount of space, and her limbs did just what she asked of them. More stretches followed, then she turned and tossed a black tunic over her head, wriggling into it. Next she combed her hair a bit and tied it back into a ponytail.

Bare toes pressing into the carpet, Ashura once again reached for the ceiling and breathed deep. For the joy of it she swiftly tossed her feet out wide and clasped her hands above her head, then snapped back into place again.

And again. And again. Three-hundred-and-fifty jumping stars, counting and breathing at each clap. From there she took a moment to catch her breath before planting her hands and feet on the rug and launching into some lion-stretches.

Still naked and sprawled out on the bed, Garrick chuckled, shaking his head. He had watched her run through her morning calisthenics many times when they were partnered together on the caravan trail. "Can't believe you can do all that, after…"

"You should try it," Ashura said as she rocked forward with her arms and arched her back. "Maybe you wouldn't be out of breath all the time." She had tried to get him to join her back on the caravan as well, but like now he had been content to lazily watch her.

Pushing up and standing again, Ashura looked about the room. Next in her routine she would usually swing her swords around, but at the moment she felt more like morningfeast. And really, this morning's exercises had been more than enough.

She looked over at the rest of her gear, carelessly piled by the wardrobe. Swords and swordbelt, her torn and tattered chainmail along with the arm and shin guards, the enchanted gloves and boots and helmet.

_ Ugh _ . As much she had been wearing the stuff lately she doubted she'd ever get used to walking around all day in armor. The swordbelt would probably be enough, for morningfeast. Maybe the gloves. They were fingerless; it wouldn't be too difficult to eat with them on.

A violent thunk against the door shattered all those thoughts and blew them away with the splinters that flew from the loose hinges. Ashura dove for her equipment, planting a foot on the swordbelt and yanking her blades from their scabbards. She had just stood up with them in hand when another blow sent the door collapsing inward.

Over the fallen wood a dwarf bounded into the room, axe in hand and chainmail clinking, eyes sharp and cold beneath the noseguard of his half-helm. He hardly glanced around the room or hesitated; just focused on Ashura and barreled towards her with murderous purpose. It was a form of greeting she was far too familiar with.

A whipping slash of one sword and then the next held the dwarf back and he started circling a little, his eyes still hard and fearless as his small wooden shield slapped her next blow aside.

_ Fearless huh _ ?

He was armed and armored and had surprise on his side, attacking a startled, barefoot girl, but there was a way to turn that around. Snarling and breathing deep all at once, Ashura called upon the power that slept within her chest and felt the waves flow outward. The dwarf felt it too, and his eyes widened with shock, then panic. He faltered and backed up frantically, though he kept it together enough not to just turn around and flee. As the dwarf backed through the doorway he elbowed a second armored man aside.

The other intruder was human; tall and blonde and similarly armored in chainmail. His eyes widened in surprise as the dwarf slipped by, and they widened even more when Ashura took a step forward and the waves that rolled off her body struck him. She still had no idea where this ability to call up an aura of fear had come from, but she thanked whatever god or angel or demon had granted it. Very handy.

Or it was for the space of a breath. The newcomer cringed, but then he shook himself like a dog shaking off water, and his shock turned into a scowl. Lifting a mace in one hand and making an open palm with the other he boomed: " _Iyachtu Xvim knows no fear, nor shall I!_ "

There was a sudden pressure in the air, and Ashura found herself stumbling back a step as the man grinned smugly. The dwarf had started to cower behind him, but now he was shaking himself as well, and tightening the grip on his axe. As one the armored men advanced, the aura of fear stamped out.

"Garrick..." Ashura began, hoping against hope that the bard had not completely frozen up.

There was a response from the bed, thank Talos, and the pressure of the armored priest's invocation was nothing compared to what came from Garrick. A windgust threw Ashura's ponytail against her chin and she stepped to the side as air rushed past her and struck the two intruders, exploding in an indoor thunderclap that made the walls shake. Both men's eyes pinched shut and their hands shot to their ears, weapons momentarily forgotten.

A split-second decision for Ashura: try to somehow bar the doorway? Grab and don more of her gear while the men were stunned? Or just charge the bastards, swordpoints leading the way and bare feet slapping on the carpet and the boards?

She charged.

With a metallic jangle and a pained gasp the point of her sword broke through the priest's chainmail coat and sunk deep. She twisted the blade before slamming the hilt of her other sword into the man's face, sending him tumbling down the short flight of stairs that led up to the suite.

Immediately Ashura whirled towards the dwarf, but he had recovered fast and was swinging his axe. She danced away, scowling as the blade nicked her arm and opened a gash. When she tried to retaliate he hefted his shield and used it to knock her blow aside. Another swing was easily parried by his axe, and the furious series of blows that followed did little better, though the dwarf quickly gave ground and scuttled backwards down the stairs.

At the bottom of the flight he took a hop back and she pursued, the fallen priest by her feet and the dwarf's back to the wall. Across the hall someone was chanting in an unfamiliar, nasal voice, the sound drawing her eyes. Sitting on a nearby windowsill was a third man, short and stocky like the dwarf but perhaps a bit gaunter, with a weathered face and a neat black beard beneath a bald head. He tossed his runty fingers forward and finished his incantation.

_ 'Fuck!'  _ Ashura mouthed as she tried to leap aside.

It was an obvious trap, but here she was stuck in it.

The glowing green bolt that leapt from the little man's fingers hissed through the air and bit into Ashura's left shoulder, just above the arm, and it bit _hard_ , burning like the hells themselves. Her eyes clouded instantly with tears, and she barely managed to knock aside an opportunistic strike from the dwarf. Worse still, there was movement to her right; the glint of a sword and the clink of armor as a fourth man approached from the other end of the hall.

How many of these bastards were there?

Feet pattered on the stairs behind her as Garrick rushed down and hit the landing. Briefly they stood shoulder to shoulder, the bard dressed only in his trousers and carrying his rapier in one hand and a silver wand from the pirate's hoard in the other. Swinging the wand he sung out a single word, the slender object shattering as it released a shimmer that flew through the air and struck the dwarf in the chest. In less than a heartbeat the wave of magic ran across the dwarf's stiffening body and seemed to lock it in place, face frozen in a scowl and axe tightly clenched beside his head.

From there Garrick swiveled and bounded towards the armored man who was advancing on them both, and Ashura didn't hesitate to lunge and show the frozen dwarf as little mercy as he had shown her when he charged into her bedroom. Her sword stabbed through solid chain and stiff muscle, then chain again when it burst out through the bastard's back.

Rapier tapping against the heavier sword of the other man, Garrick ducked and wove with speed and precision that must have come from his agility spell. On the other side of the hall a burst of violet drew Ashura's eye. It was one of the magical arrow-shields mages are so fond of, she realized, deflecting Viconia's throwing ring. The drow's attack drew the little man's attention towards the stairway beside him and he pointed a finger, but before he could speak something flew down at him that his spell couldn't deflect. Imoen collided with the little man, her dagger out above her head, and whatever spell he had been preparing flickered out.

Whirling, Ashura took a step towards Garrick and their mutual foe. The bard's nimble swordwork didn't seem to be doing much good, each thrust easily hammered away by the bigger man's sword. One blow was followed through with a riposte, and Ashura cringed as she watched the tip of the armored man's blade stab deep into Garrick's bare stomach, doubling him over. He went down clutching at his gut, black blood spilling across the carpet.

Before the shock of Garrick's wound fully hit her Ashura found that she was passed him, protectively placing herself between him and the swordsman as her righthand blade lashed out in a furry of strikes. She tried to lock blades and bring her lefthand weapon in for a surprise stab, but her attack was far too sluggish. Even lifting her left arm was an effort, through the burning pain where the acid had splattered.

Her opponent was dressed from neck to toe in chainmail, buttressed by gilded plates and decorated with elaborate runes. His head was cover by a spiked kettle-helmet and he wore a broad sneer on his face as he slipped his longsword along Ashura's blade and forced her to dance aside, barely dodging the riposte. He followed up with several fierce slashes, the sneer shifting to a look of concentration as Ashura turned his attacks aside and lashed back, steel ringing again and again.

Right beside them a door creaked inward and the hall filled with high-pitched, feminine shrieks. There were two women screaming from the bed inside, and Coran peaked out through the doorway, wearing nothing but his quiver and clutching his longbow and an arrow. It seemed an odd weapon to pick for a frantic battle in close quarters, but any help was welcome.

A few more slashes and Ashura pushed her foe back, managing painfully to catch his blade with her lefthand sword and hold it up, at the same time ramming her righthand blade in past his guard. The swordpoint struck his chest cleanly and sent a numbing jolt through her arm, bouncing harmlessly off his armor. The sneering man replied with a blow of his own, whistling over Ashura's head a she ducked. His swing left him open and she slashed at his stomach, but once again the blade simply bounced away, a slash even more useless against the chainmail than a stab.

Next the man raised his sword over his head. He was feinting or preparing a big downward slash, but Ashura never gave him the chance. If her swords were useless she would find another way.

She sprung forward, colliding with her foe in a full tackle. There were a few staggering steps backwards before he found his feet and pushed against her, and then they were turning and turning on the carpet, seeking leverage. The man laughed, the full sneer in his voice. "Feisty eh?" Ashura's swords ground together as she locked in a full bear hug. "So you want to dance with Molkar before the end? Ha! Useless!"

Ashura just grunted, especially when the pommel of his sword struck her unarmored back, trying to dislodge her. Ignoring the pain, she kicked and tussled with her legs against his. More turning, round and round, then she let go and his weight sent him tumbling. His back struck the window at the end of the hall with a loud crack.

Before the man could right himself Ashura dropped her swords, grabbed at the edges of the windowsill and leapt forward, planting her bare foot against his armored stomach and driving all her weight against him. The cracking sound turned into the full scream of shattering glass and the window gave way, sending Molkar tumbling into open space. Shards of flying glass glittered in the dawn all around him before he plummeted out of sight.

There was a thunk and a gurgle behind Ashura and she whirled, suddenly face to face with the priest that she thought she had killed. His spiked mace was raised, but he seemed to have forgotten it, his other hand clutching at a bloody arrow that had emerged from the front of his neck. He sank down, struggling to form words from choked gasps. It seemed Coran had managed to effectively use the longbow in close quarters after all.

Ignoring that she was out of breath, Ashura dashed forward, past the elf and the open door to his room where the two women were clutching one bedsheet tightly to their chests and still screaming. Imoen was hunched over against a wall and the enemy spellcaster was by her feet, unmoving.

Garrick was pale as a sheet, eyes wide open and flicking quickly left to right, as if he were reading something. His breathing was loud, shallow and strained. Kneeling down, Ashura placed her hands against the backs of his, pressing hard and hoping between the two of them they could hold his insides in. He had already lost a lot of blood though; he was curled up in a wide pool of it. Ashura looked up and made to shout for Viconia, but the drow had already appeared over them and was kneeling down, her hands rubbing together and a healing invocation on her lips.

At the same time Imoen flashed by them, saying: "I'll take care of Mr. Chainmail." She muttered something to herself before she casually leapt out through the broken window and slowly floated down.

Viconia pushed at Ashura's numb and bloody hands, peeling them away along with Garrick's. Next the drow pressed her glowing fingers against the wound and closed her eyes in concentration. Garrick's breaths grew a little deeper, his face still clammy and pale. "A healing potion would be helpful," Viconia suggested. "No doubt there is internal damage."

With a nod Ashura rushed up the stairs. She returned as fast as she could, unstopping the cork and pouring the healing potion between Garrick's lips. As she did she winced at her own wound, every motion of her left arm and shoulder agonizing. It felt like her skin there wanted to peel off.

Through the doorway of Coran's room the two women who had been screaming peaked out. "Is it safe?" one asked breathlessly.

"Should be," Ashura found herself saying. She had no idea really. Probably safer for them than her though. The pair took her word for it, stumbling into their shoes as they came out into the hall, both naked and clutching bunched up clothing to their chests. Ashura vaguely recognized their faces; two of the prostitutes she frequently saw soliciting passersby under the lamplight by Feldpost's Inn. One had dark brown hair and the other's was strawberry red. _One way to spend your share of pirate's treasure_ , she thought as the pair hurried down the hall and then the stairs.

With Garrick stabilized Ashura hastily made her way to her room to fetch their things. What passed for authority in Beregost might arrive at any moment, and it was probably best to be gone by then. More importantly: she really wanted to be back in her boots and armor. It seemed you could never have too much armor.

* * *

Beregost had constables, in theory, but they sure were never around when you needed them. Imoen rubbed her arm a bit, fidgeting on the stoop of the abandoned shack as her eyes swept the street. She should have been glad that the local law didn't seem to be searching for them, and that the only looks they got were cursory glances from townsfolk going about their morning chores. They seemed quite content to turn a blind eye to whatever it was three armed people were up to, lounging on the porch.

It was good that there were no lawmen around now, but earlier that morning when Imoen had stood over the unconscious assassin she had hoped the Flaming Fists or whoever would show up already. She had yanked the man's sword away and tied his wrists behind his back, his ankles together too for good measure. That's what heroes did right? Tie up the bad guys and hand them over to the law.

But Viconia had other ideas. 'Good that we captured one alive. If we can find time and privacy we should interrogate him thoroughly,' the drow had said, cold as ice.

Imoen had cringed at that but Ashura had spoken up immediately. 'I may know just the place.' Before Ashura and Coran had lifted the armored man between them and silently dragged him down the street Imoen had hoped that the constables would show up. They'd explain how these strangers had attacked them, sort things out, and she could wash her hands of the whole business. But the streets had been empty.

So here she was, guarding the stoop of the abandoned shack that she had hoped to never see again, close as it was to their usual haunt at the Jovial Juggler. She had lockpicked the door and then the heavy padlocks that kept the cellar shut before excusing herself, not wanting to witness what Viconia had in mind for the prisoner. At least she hadn't heard anything in the few minutes she'd spent uncomfortably waiting on the stoop: no screams of pain, muffled or otherwise. That was good, right?

Garrick sat nearby, pale and still clutching at his stomach, and Coran lounged on top of a barrel with a calm look on his face.

With a low creak the door swung open and Viconia stepped out, wincing a bit at the morning light through the slit between her hood and mask. Ashura followed close behind her, face stony. She was dressed in the bronze-trimmed chainmail coat the assassin had worn.

"That was quick," Garrick noted, almost cheerfully.

"And fruitful," Viconia said. "It appears this Molkar and his band were hired by a merchant cartel called 'The Iron Throne,' through a man named Zhalimar Cloudwulfe, to kill Ashura specifically. He suspected it was for her interference with their operations in Nashkel and the Wood of Sharp Teeth, but he was not certain, or at least not told specifically. Zhalimar had said something about those places, and what a 'thorn in our side' she has been."

"And assassins started coming for me long before that," Ashura noted, "but it's another piece of the puzzle. A name for our real enemies, maybe." She walked down the steps and out onto the street, her companions falling in line behind her. Not a word about Molkar. No doubt he was spider-food now.

Imoen shuddered.

As they headed aimlessly through Beregost, little mind on anything but putting some distance between themselves and the Juggler or the shack, Viconia turned to Imoen. Her voice was low. "I notice your discomfort child. It was not so bad as you may think."

"Don't want to hear about it," Imoen murmured, but Viconia paid no mind.

"I had thought I would have to use my knowledge of drow…interrogation techniques, but your friend had a better idea that proved far swifter. She opened the door to the cellar a little ways and briefly shoved the _rivvil's_ head through. Then she pulled him back, said that we hardly had any time, and gave him a simple choice: he could be thrown down with the spiders alive, or he could talk."

_ This really isn't helping with the discomfort thing. _

"The _rivvil_ proved to be the practical sort, and chose to talk. I used a spell to discern lies from truth, and he told us everything he knew. A most swift and clean interrogation."

_ Still think I prefer Xan's way of interrogating.  _ "She…she kept her word at least?" Imoen asked, her eyes on the back of Ashura's head.

"Indeed. He did not go into the cellar alive. Your friend is merciful, in her way."

Imoen shook her head. _Yeah, real reassuring._ She was sure Ashura would shrug it off if she broached the subject. _'Hey, we haven't killed anyone who didn't try to kill us first.'_ Not to mention that they had witnessed Xan dispose of a prisoner in about the same way. Still, it sure smelled like murder to her.

* * *

Aimless wandering through the streets of Beregost turned into more certain strides, and Ashura found herself walking north, a glance revealing that the other four were close behind. Garrick was closest, right on her heel. _My loyal puppy._

She sighed, and slowed, stopping just past the obelisk at the center of town. It was near here that they had first met Garrick, juggling in the square and looking for mercenaries. She had thought he was a bit of a dandy back then. Honestly, she still did. "You nearly died," she stated flatly, turning to face Garrick.

He chewed his lip, a bashful look on his face. "Yeah. Sorry, I should try-"

"No." She shook her head and waved the rolled up bounty-notice that Molkar had carried in Garrick's face. "What I mean is: strange people keep trying to kill me, one of them nearly killed you, and I'm _going_ to seek them out and find out what this is all about." She stabbed the end of the paper into Garrick's chest, a sharp, icy look in her eyes. "You got your stomach opened up by a longsword and you nearly bled out. It could easily happen again. And it could easily not be a case of 'nearly' next time. Wouldn't be the first time someone's died traveling with us."

She turned to the whole group. "This goes for all of you. _I'm_ being hunted and _I'm_ going to find who's sending the hunters and take it to the enemy, or die trying. _I_ don't have a choice." Her eyes swept across them. "You all do. We can part ways right here. I'd understand. Hells," she was looking at Garrick again, "I'd encourage it."

Coran immediately chuckled, the butt of his longbow pressed to the ground as he leaned on it. "You're mistaken if you think this is my first death-defying adventure. Life's nothing without them. You can't scare me off."

"And you know I'm not going anywhere, like it or not," Imoen said.

"Well yeah," Ashura murmured. The message hadn't really been for Imoen. No speech would change the fact that they were attached at the hip. Garrick seemed to be studying his shoes, and Ashura's eyes fell on Viconia. The drow's reasons for traveling with them had always seemed purely pragmatic, and marching towards more inevitable battles hardly seemed practical.

Viconia just shrugged though. "My opinion has not changed," she stated flatly.

Looking up, Garrick spoke. "So, the Cloakwood then? Seems like our closest thing to a lead, and there's only one way to find out if the assassins and bandits and such are all connected. And," he glanced over and added, "Imoen's buddy is there investigating already."

"Yup," Imoen said. "He keeps saying it's a doomed mission."

"We should prove him wrong then." Garrick nodded his head vaguely towards the north. "Go take it too the enemy."

Ashura shrugged, eyes still locked with Garrick's. "If you insist. Just don't want your death on my conscience."

His smile was warm and genuine. "My choice. Really."

They had resumed walking and put some distance between themselves and the crossroads when Garrick spoke up again. "Do try to keep me alive though, okay? Someone has to write the story of this adventure when we're finished with it."

"I'll do my best," Ashura replied with a grin. _No promises though._ There was a long road ahead, and she had a feeling they'd all have to harden their hearts a bit before they had finished walking it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Molkar and his band usually ambush you near Gullykin, but I guess they got tired of waiting.


	37. A Perfect Plan

_ "To seek revenge with boiling blood will only scald your veins."  _ –old duergar proverb

* * *

Drawing in a deep breath of cool morning air, Ajantis stood proud and surveyed the forested hills. They seemed to roll on forever, accentuated by craggy rock-faces here and there above plunging gorges. A wild and beautiful country really; the Cloakwood. They would have all appreciated it more if the land wasn't constantly trying to kill them. That and the urgent mission.

Turning from his spot at the peak of the hill, Ajantis noticed that Xan was out of breath once again, trying to scramble his way up the path of moss and roots and stones. The big squire bent down, and offered a hand, which Xan looked at for a moment before carefully accepting. It took almost no effort to haul the thin elf up to the summit. He made sure Xan was steady on his feet, giving him a broad smile before letting go.

Xan mouthed a very low "My thanks," and Ajantis nodded.

"Pleased to help you along, upon this righteous path." Early on the squire had been uncertain about the dour elf, but learning his sad story had softened Ajantis' heart a bit. Tortured and helpless in the dark for an unknown length of days or tendays. It was enough to make a sad jangle of nerves out of anyone. And Ajantis figured that if he kept offering a helping hand the elf might leave his shell eventually. Long journeys full of hardships had their way of forging steady comradery, Ajantis had found, on the road with other squires under Keldorn's watchful eyes.

Xan shook his head and snorted slightly. "A righteous path? I am here because my nation does not mine iron. As simple as that."

A frown crept across Ajantis' face. "Well, serving one's nation is a noble task."

Xan's head shook a bit more. "If you only knew how hollow your convictions sounded." He turned his back and trudged towards an open area beneath the trees, where the druids had already sat down to rest, the brown wolf lounging by one of Faldorn's bare feet and Takiyah on the other side.

The frown on Ajantis' face tightened. Long journeys full of hardships sometimes forged comradery, but other times they just made mismatched traveling companions hate each other more and more. Ajantis turned back to the path, but the woman was the next one climbing the hill. A very doubtful source of 'comradery' there.

Still, he tried. Reaching down and bending, Ajantis offered Shar-Teel his hand. "M'lady." She was sweating and huffing, something he had noticed a lot on steep hikes. Despite all her speed and fury Shar-Teel seemed to have next to no endurance.

To his surprise she took his hand without hesitating or complaining, though she seemed to make a game of squeezing with all her strength as he hauled her up. When she released her grip and Ajantis winced and rubbed his hand Shar-Teel gave a hearty laugh. That laugh was starting to wear on him; the booming 'Ha!' the foul-mouthed woman let out constantly, usually because someone else was in pain.

Ajantis slips and falls while trying to climb over a massive log. "Ha!"

Xan's boots that he carefully cleaned with a cantrip that morning sink calf-deep into mud. "Ha!"

Ajantis' sword pommel disturbs a wasp's nest and he flees, enduring several stings. "Ha!" And so on.

"Glad you're finding ways to amuse yourself," Ajantis muttered.

She slapped him hard on the shoulder and his armor rattled. "You've got to enjoy the little things," she said through her clenched teeth. "Especially when you're dirty and homeless and wandering through the woods."

"We follow a righteous path," Ajantis repeated. As if saying it enough times would make it so.

Shar-Teel spat. "Follow a fool pair of elves with death-wishes, more like."

"This organization of brigands must be rooted out and crushed."

A shrug. "Suppose we can find common cause there. I'm always up for a fight."

"A good cause-"

"Like I give a fuck," Shar-Teel interrupted. "Any fight'll do." She tapped the hilt of her sword. "If it bleeds I can kill it. If it wasn't for that elf and his damned geas I'd try my sword on you right now."

Ajantis furrowed his brow. "My lady-"

"And that puffed-up talk just makes me want to gut you more." The grip on Shar-Teel's sword-hilt tightened and her knuckles went white.

"Ought to spar," Kivan grunted as he passed them, not sparing either warrior a glance.

Ajantis grimaced, but it quickly turned to a pondering look, and then a smile. He reached for his sword. "Now that's the most sensible thing I've ever heard him say."

"Or the only thing," Shar-Teel muttered.

"You're always talking about fighting." Ajantis undid his swordbelt and slipped the sheathed weapon from it. "How about we put your skills to the test? The civilized way."

Brow creasing, Shar-Teel did not quite seem to follow. "Are you undressing or something?"

Shaking his head, Ajantis tied the belt back. "This is how I'd spar with my tutors and fellow squires when we were on the road and no blunted swords were available. Swords tied in their scabbards."

"How bloody useless."

Ajantis lifted his hand-and-a-half sword, scabbard and all, and after tying a knot he gave it a few swings around his head. "Are you going to talk all day or fight?" he asked with a smirk. That got her moving.

* * *

Shaking his head, Xan sat on the leaves and watched as the two warriors turned and twisted, their faces strained and their sheathed swords hammering away at each other. He looked over at Kivan. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

The wild elf shrugged slightly. "Out on the trail things always grow tense. Sometimes sparring between the hunters lets the tension out."

"Perhaps," Xan said uncertainly, "but is it not also possible that someone will take a bad beating and just get angrier at the other?"

"Yeah. That happens sometimes."

Xan rolled his eyes, then fixed his gaze on Ajantis. _Come on, you big stupid oaf. Loose gracefully._

* * *

Every other swing or so the woman would let out another sharp "Ha!"

Did she _know_ how much it annoyed him? Was that why? The laughter grew louder when Ajantis grunted and stumbled a bit, his hands aching from holding off her fierce blows. By Helm she was _strong_ , and a fair bit faster than Ajantis too.

Still, just as he had expected, the slashes were a little clumsier now than when they had started just a few minutes ago. She had terrible endurance, and a fighting-style focused on throwing all the killing force out at once. _A paper tiger,_ old master Keldorn would have called her.

Even winded she was still a skilled fencer though, keeping her body turned and her feet always in motion. She dodged and danced, anticipating each slash he made. Still, would she anticipate his next trick?

Ducking past a stab of Shar-Teel's sword, Ajantis saw an opening. He flung his own weapon forward and then flipping it in the air between them, catching it by the sheathed blade. In the same motion he used the superior reach of his weapon, slipping the cross of its guard behind the hilt of Shar-Teel's blade and yanking.

The sudden, unexpected move had the desired effect: prying Shar-Teel's sword from her hand and flinging it away as Ajantis gripped the inverted blade and jabbed. The pommel of his bastard sword slammed into Shar-Teel's face, and she stumbled back, dark blood pouring from her nose. The look of shock she wore quickly shifted to something deeply savage.

It had all been reflex, the technique drilled into him through relentless practice. Perhaps he had gone too far though.

"Sorry, I-" Ajantis began, and then she was a blur right against him and he was tumbling backwards. Steel clanged as their armor collided, and he took the worst of it, the wind knocked from his lungs and the air replaced by stabbing pins. He tried to struggle, but she had him locked against the earth, her thighs a vice, one hand pinning his wrists. And her other hand…

He looked over, coughing and catching his breath, to the gleam of naked steel in the sunlight. The dagger's tip was a hairbreadth from his neck, and when he looked up there was murder in her eyes. Her lips twitched and then she sat back, pulling the dagger away and snapping it curtly into its sheath. "I win," she growled, wiping her bloody nose with the back of her hand and standing up.

It took Ajantis some time to catch his breath and rise as well, clutching his sword tightly.

That had been the work of the geas; he was sure of it. If she hadn't been magically compelled to be loyal she would have opened his throat right then and there. One hand rubbing the front of his neck, Ajantis glanced over at Xan. The elf had his palm to his face, shaking his head.

Perhaps it would be best to demand that the elf lift his enchantment right here and now. The woman was evil, and more importantly she was _dangerous_. To all of them. It could all be settled right now, with a duel to the death. It seemed that it would come to that, and best to face it here rather than be stabbed in the back.

Ajantis jumped when he felt a firm hand smack him on his rump. He turned, clutching the hilt of his sword, and his eyes met Shar-Teel's again. She had found a cloth and pressed it to her nose, though beneath the linen there seemed to be a hint of a smile. "Nice fighting there," she said. Another smack and Ajantis shuddered once again. "Rematch any time you like." Then she turned and walked away.

Or perhaps it had not been the geas after all. By Helm, that woman was confusing! Or was this just what comradery looked like with people who are not trained knights?

Faldorn had stood as well, arms stretching above her head, and the rest of her little pack were getting to their feet . "I hope we're all done strutting and posturing," she said with a cold glance at the two warriors. "From here on it will be best to make no noise." She pointed at the rolling hills. "We should reach the Black Talon fort by early afternoon."

* * *

"The knob on that oak tree that looks suspiciously like a nose." Coran called it just as he was drawing his bowstring back and Imoen leaned forward and squinted. It just seemed like a dot to her, if she was even looking at the right place in the wall of trees on the far side of the field. The bow rattled and the string twanged, the arrow arcing slightly and sailing on the wind. It seemed to strike the blurry little smudge of wood that Imoen guessed was the oak, right at one of the gnobby spots, black fletching quivering for a moment.

Imoen shook her head, then drew an arrow of her own. "The fencepost on the far right." She pointed with the arrow, then knocked it and took aim. A twang, and then steel sunk into wood with a satisfying thunk. She smiled, and now it was Coran's turn to shake his head slightly.

"Quite a competent shot, but not a challenging one. You've a ways to go before you'll be able to put an arrow through a moving wyvern's eye."

"Ya, well if you hadn't noticed I'm using a shortbow. Not to mention that if I show off and shoot an arrow way out there I'll have a long hike to retrieve it."

Coran chuckled. The other three were resting in the shade of a broad willow nearby, enjoying the traditional midday picnic here at the edge of the Cloakwood. It had been a nice journey north, all told, and Imoen was going to miss the horses they had left stabled at the Friendly Arm Inn. Sore as her backside had gotten at times, the mounts had more than made up for it when they allowed them to simply gallop away from two separate xvart ambushes, kicking dust in the little blue creature's faces.

Not fighting random monsters every ten steps; now that was the way to travel! Unfortunately the Cloakwood had no roads and was notoriously hilly. She had liked her horse: a smallish gelding with a sweet temperament that she'd named 'Trotty.' Hopefully he'd be waiting when they got back.

"How about this then," Coran offered. "I'll retrieve the arrows if you actually challenge yourself."

"Generous of you." She plucked another arrow from her quiver. "So what would count as a challenge?"

He pointed to a nearby spot in the treeline, not quite as distant as his earlier shot. "One of those trees. I'll wager even a shortbow can reach them, if you arc it right."

Imoen shook her head, but drew the string back and aimed for the clouds. "That pine in the middle." Holding her breath, she loosed. It was a high, magnificent arc. Shame it fell well short of the trees, vanishing in the tall grass and wildflowers.

"Too high," Coran said, his tone friendly and helpful. "You can't simply aim for the sky and hope for the best. At least not in archery." He stepped in behind her, drawing another arrow from her quiver and placing it in her hand.

"So what do you do?" Imoen asked. "Complex geometry in your head?"

A friendly chuckle. "Hardly. You just have to picture the arc in your mind's eye, and adjust accordingly." He was real close behind now, and as she aligned the flights of her arrow with the string he placed a gentle hand behind each of her arms, making little adjustments to her pose. "You have the breathing right, and a good stance. You just need to grip the bow here…" He guided her fingers up a smidge. "And turn your shoulders just a bit, like this."

_ Ah, so that was his game!  _ So bloody obvious. The old _'Let me show you how to take a proper warrior's stance, and oh, if I press against your bum a bit and get a little handsy that's just part of it'_ routine. Fuller had done that one once, on the premise of teaching her 'swordwork.'

On the other hand, the warm presence behind her was nice and reassuring, and to Coran's credit he was being gentle and only guiding her arms. Maybe he was actually starting to learn restraint. She smiled and let him make his silly little adjustments. _What's the harm? Though, if he starts with some_ 'You must be gentle with the bowstring, like you're caressing a lover' _hogwash he's going to get a smack._

Holding her breath, Imoen imagined the arc of the arrow's flight, tilting her bow down just a hair. She let the breath out and when her lungs were empty she let go. When the arrow reached the end of its flight it plunged between two tree-trunks and disappeared into the woods. "Nice," Coran said with a reassuring smile, and Imoen had to agree. She'd missed the pine by a stride or so, but the arrow had reached the trees at least. Really, she was surprised the shortbow could make such a shot at all.

Stepping around beside her, Coran casually held his bow out and planted an arrow. "The broad branch of the oak I hit before, on the right side."

"So. A redhead and a brunette huh?"

Coran cringed just as the arrow flew, and it landed far short of the trees. _Nicely timed! Glad to know that he actually_ can _miss._

"A what now?" Coran asked.

"The two prostitutes that were in your room," Imoen said matter-of-factly, smirking.

Coran shrugged, looking uncomfortable just briefly before trying one of his disarming smiles. "They happened to be in front of Feldpost's. And it had been a long, lonely trip."

"Now, the one woman's hair wasn't quite as black as Ashura's. You don't see hair that dark very often. And I'm a bit more on the auburn side. The redhead looked like more of a freckly ginger."

A hearty laugh, and now the salty look had fully returned to Coran's face. He met her eyes. "True. You caught me and I won't deny it. They were but pale imitations of two far greater beauties, but when perfection slips your fingers you must make do."

Imoen made a face and found she didn't quite have a response to that. Her eyes shifted away. _Darn._ She had been trying to get a rise out of him, and now she was the one blushing.

Soft laughter rumbled from the elf. "My dear, if you think that you can embarrass me then you haven't been paying attention." He turned. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have some arrows to retrieve."

She watched him saunter off through the deep grass, about puffed up like a peacock. _Can't be embarrassed_ , that was for sure. And now, like it or not, the image of him swinging out of his bedroom wearing nothing but a quiver came to mind and seemed to be indelibly etched there. Bold look on his face, slender, hairless body all covered in tattoos. Despite the mortal peril he had looked like he was posing for an especially randy portrait of a swashbuckler.

It would have been a funny sight if not for the very real battle going on. Shame there always seemed to be one of those.

* * *

After all the buildup and travel, the fortress in the Cloakwood was a bit underwhelming. Two rings of upright logs, filed sharp at the top; one crowning a craggy hill and the other sitting on the low ground beneath. The separate rings were linked by a walled-in path, and a broad moat surrounded them both. Tall buildings rose above the walls, little smears of smoke climbing from the chimneys, and a pair of guards leaned against the only gate at the end of a rickety bridge on the low ground. The smoke and the guards were the only signs of activity, and the simple walls were not designed to be manned by archers.

Faldorn called it a 'great scar upon the land,' though there seemed to be little greatness about it to Xan. He had seen countless more impressive forts in his time. The druidess ranted a bit more, waving her sharpened fingernails at the fortress, and the next thing Xan knew she had shifted into a raven and fluttering away. Hopefully she was scouting.

With a sigh Xan shook his head. The group of savage humans were better allies than none, but it was like trying to herd a pack of wild dogs most of the time. You never know when they may turn and bite you, or more likely just catch some scent and run off while you call after impotently.

A pack of wolves, literally at times. At twilight the day before, while Xan and his companions had set up camp, the druids had vanished. There had been high-pitched howls, barks and yips in the woods as the shadows lengthened, and in the light of their fresh campfire three great wolves had lumbered from the darkness, the black one in the lead dragging the carcass of a skinny doe by the neck.

With a shake of its head the wolf had tossed the deer before the fire and grown into the form of Faldorn. She had poked the carcass with one of her bare, dirty toes and through her bloody teeth she had announced: "We feast."

It had been a good meal, Xan had to admit. Roasted venison over the fire. Of course he and Ajantis had been the only ones who didn't yank strips of meat off barehanded and gorge themselves with greasy fingers.

A pack of wolves, these Cloakwood druids, and Faldorn was the unquestioned leader. Xan wondered how that had happened; shouldn't the alpha be the oldest and most grizzled beast? He got the impression that she was some sort of druidic prodigy, from the way the others treated her. Or maybe she had simply snarled and bitten her way to the top.

The black raven did return eventually, and the group retreated back into the forest to formulate a plan. That eased Xan's mind, just a little bit. At least Faldorn had the sense not to go in alone and biting. According to the druidess the fort was lightly manned, if not lightly guarded. In addition to the two men at the gate there were four more guards in front of the main building playing cards. That seemed to be it, besides unknown numbers in the barracks.

The bad news was that the card players looked the dangerous sort: two men in heavy armor and two with no armor at all. In this setting a lack of armor could only mean one thing: mages.

A dangerous group of men, but even the deadliest foe was at a disadvantage when you could make the first unexpected move. And they even had them outnumbered. Xan tried to quash the hopeful feeling rising in his breast. Hope was deceptively dangerous. They would have to be cautious. But Xan had plenty of spells prepared with caution in mind.

* * *

Invisible, low to the ground and as silent as he could manage, Xan scurried along the duckboards and the narrow bridge that spanned the moat. He didn't dare breathe as he neared the men at the gate, passing between them and imagining all the ways he could accidently give himself away. His smell. His clumsy feet. An accidental breath.

Neither his lungs nor his shoes betrayed him though, and the two guards leaning against the wall looked disinterested as he passed by.

Sweating from the tension more than the midmorning sun, Xan forced himself to breathe a little once the guards were out of sight, creeping across the packed earth and keeping to the shadow of the wall as best he could.

There they were, just ahead and in front of the stable as Faldorn had described: four competent-looking men sitting on stools and hunched over a battered crate, cards spread out. One man was a big gruff bull in lobstered platemail with red, close-cropped hair. The other armored man was gaunt and had a sly look to him, dressed in light chain with a gilded morningstar at his hip. And there was no doubt now that the other two men were mages; their clothes clean and ornate, with arcane letters of protection embroidered down open coats and along sleeves, one dressed in blue and the other in black. Those letters would not protect them from the spell Xan had in mind, however.

He crept into position by the wall and near the guards, invisible fingers flexing out before him. The trap was in place now, and once he started his spell that trap would close, provided they acted quickly enough. Ajantis and Shar-Teel would strike from invisibility on the bridge and kill the guards there, Kivan's arrows would bury themselves into the startled mages while Xan stunned the four elite men with his opening spell, and the unseen druids would sweep in from their hidden spot inside the fort, throwing spells that would bind the four men with summoned roots.

Stunned three ways and peppered with arrows before they even realized they were under attack. If Xan's companions acted fast -and acted as one- it would only take a moment.

With a bang that echoed through the silent fort the door of the barracks flew open and something massive lumbered out, Xan's breath catching in his throat before he could begin his incantation. The great figure had to turn its shoulders diagonal to even fit, bent over and slamming its elbows against the doorway to wriggle through before it righted itself. Xan gasped, frozen, as he watched the nine-foot tall ogre rise, armored plates adorning his body at the arms and legs and chest; gaps of veiny muscle showing between the steel, a greatsword on his back.

"Fucking human doors," the ogre bellowed immediately as he massaged the back of his neck, looking stiff and _very_ agitated. Next he rubbed his bald, gleaming head. "I'd tear them all down if I could!" The men at the improvised card table looked away in silence.

_ An ogre? In the barracks? Could it possibly be…? _

A furious roar and a bowstring's twang erupted from somewhere in the shadow of the wall. The arrow sank into the ogre's cheek, snapping his head violently to the side, perhaps aimed at his neck or eye. Cards fluttered and stools tumbled to the dust as the men around the crate leapt to their feet, hands shooting to weapons or starting to fly through arcane gestures.

_ Tazok! _ It had to be. Xan hesitated for the space of a breath.

Kivan did not.

The wild elf already had another arrow knocked and aimed when the ogre and the guards fixed their eyes upon him. Wood groaned and the elf snarled as Tazok shielded his face, catching the second arrow in the meat of his forearm. At the same time the ogre's other hand had snapped back to pull at the hilt of his greatsword.

His stomach clinched and sinking fast, Xan flung his hands forward and sang out the spell that was supposed to have begun the ambush. Light danced and built at his fingertips, and with a will he flung it towards the cluster of warriors and mages.

By the time the bolt struck and bloomed out into the immobilizing spell as intended, however, the enemy mages had already summoned shimmering barriers. The wave of Xan's magic rippled through the four men, locking the warriors in place but flowing away from shimmering spellwards that enveloped the other two.

To Xan's horror the mage in blue glanced around and snapped his hands outward, barking out a second spell with dazzling speed. White light flowed from his palms and Xan felt his immobilizing enchantment ripped away, the other men stumbling forward and once again in motion.

_ So quick and sure with that dispelling. He must be an abjurer. _

The trap they had planned was springing closed now. The two druids appeared close to Xan and began to summon vines while Ajantis and Shar-Teel raced into view from the gate, their swords red and dripping. The trap was closing, but on an alert and agitated foe.

With shocking quickness that must have been magical, the man in chainmail dashed forward and engaged the warriors, his morningstar whirling like a tornado and his feet tapping against the dirt as he zig-zagged. Shar-Teel snarled and tried to match his speed, furious slashes mostly finding open air as the man taunted her, though she managed to dodge a swing of his weapon.

The third arrow that Kivan launched was deflected by the plate of Tazok's injured arm, and the ogre's roar made the arrow-shaft in his cheek shake like a battle-flag. Tazok's sword pointed at Kivan as he charged, showing no sign that his wounds were slowing him. For his part Kivan was charging as well, his hood thrown back and his bow out before him as he made a running, point-blank shot.

The arrow struck, slipping between armored plates somewhere in the ogre's broad middle and sinking just a bit into flesh. By then Tazok's sword had swept out and bitten through Kivan's bow, splinters and fragments flying as the wild elf was forced to scramble back and roll.

A flash of light drew Xan's eye to something gathering and crackling at the tip of the mage in black's finger. Gasping as he recognized the spell, Xan's hand shot to the hilt of his sheathed moonblade and he turned and tried to dash away from where he judged the finger had aimed.

The rush of burning wind hit him in the back and flung him face-first to the dirt before he had made two steps. Eyes pinched shut, Xan pressed his face to the ground, lungs stifled by searing air as he tried to breathe. The roar of flames was everywhere and the light was blinding. His lips cracked as he hacked and coughed, slithering forward. Over fire's hiss and crackle came the panicked cries of the horses, trapped in the stable, and closer still the scream of someone burning.

It seemed like many long, pained breathes later when Xan managed to scramble up to his knees, no flames around him now. He turned as fast as he could, moonblade out, the polished blue steel glowing faintly. Though every pore of his skin felt scratchy-dry and there was smoke coming from spots on his cloak, Xan seemed to be unburnt. The enchantment on the blade must have protected him.

The druids were not so lucky. From the smoke where the fireball had struck one of them stumbled forward, Takiyah it seemed, though his hair was an ashy tangle and his face was a mass of raw blisters charred black in places. He managed to lurch another step and then tumble, body flowing as it fell into the form of a wolf with burnt, disheveled fur.

The moment the wolf's paws struck the earth it bared its teeth and charged at the mages, but before it could cross the open courtyard an axe whistled through the air, thrown by the large man in plate armor. It landed blade-side between the creature's eyes, and there was a sharp yelp as the wolf skidded and fell.

By then Xan had found his feet and desperately intoned one of his most powerful spells, launching a ball of scintillating orange towards the unfolding mayhem.

Familiar words droned from the abjurer's sneering lips as he watched Xan toss the spell, and before the bolt of orange struck it was countered with a wave of the abjurer's hand and a bolt of searing white. The spells collided and the lights popped and sizzled away to nothing. At the same time the mage in black swung his hand in Xan's direction and he was forced to dive and run for his life, barely avoiding a hissing green bolt that struck the wall behind him with a splatter.

A great stroke of Tazok's sword nearly cleaved off Kivan's head, and as the ranger ducked the ogre surged forward and drove his boot-toe into Kivan's stomach. The powerful kick bent the wild elf's body and sent him flying a couple of paces, where he crumpled to the ground. Another stomp and Tazok had his sword raised high to finish Kivan with a downward stroke, but Ajantis leapt between them and hefted his shield.

Tazok let out a snort that became a roar as his greatsword descended with blinding speed; a mountain of muscle crashing down. There was stony determination on Ajantis' broad face, but it became a pained wince when the top of his shield parted and shards of steel and wood went flying. Tazok's greatsword chopped through the wood and sank down and down, knocked the squire's shield-arm back with a red gush. The shield was shattered and the arm beneath cut to the bone.

Ajantis tried to pivot and bring his sword in to strike back, but with a flick the ogre lifted his own blade and the backswing sent the squire's sword flying, along with bits of several fingers. Eyes widening with shock, Ajantis glanced down at the ruined shield and mangled hand, then up at the giant that towered over him. He lifted his arms up to shield himself, but by then Tazok was swinging down again with the same crushing force as before.

The diagonal chop landed at the edge of Ajantis' thick neck and sliced down through armor, muscle and collarbone with a metallic jangle and a moist thunk. Black blood surged up around the blade as it lodged on a rib and stopped halfway down the man's opened torso.

At almost the same instant Shar-Teel dashed in behind the ogre, ramming her sword into the tree trunk that served as his thigh. The blade bit deep and Tazok stumbled forward, trying to dislodge his own sword and strike back.

With a yank and a spray of blood Shar-Teel drew her blade back and readied another slash, but a flying axe bit between into her back just then. Armored scales flew away and her arms faltered, feet stumbling drunkenly.

A stomp drew Tazok's sword from Ajantis' shuddering body, and as he pulled he swung at Shar-Teel. She managed an ungraceful hop backwards, not moving fast enough to avoid the entire blade, and it cut a bloody swathe across her chest, the force knocking her off her feet. When she fell Shar-Teel growled in pain, landing on the imbedded axe before rolling over.

Xan shot a glance towards the axe-thrower, readying a desperate spell, but Faldorn was there already, her skin the color of bark and glowing with an aura of shimmering sunlight. The druid's club was matted with blood and clumps of hair, the unmoving body of the mage in black at her feet, and with a roar and a leap she launched herself onto the armored man. In midair she blurred into a black wolf, bringing the warrior down in a whirl of clanking steel and twisting fur.

Kivan had recovered, but the fool was advancing on Tazok with nothing but a drawn knife and a mad look in his eyes, and the man in chainmail was rushing around to flank him.

"We must retreat," Xan found himself breathing as he took in the full battlefield. Faldorn was all that was left of the druids, Ajantis was clearly dead and Shar-Teel lay face-down and unmoving. "Retreat!" Xan shouted next, but there was no waver in Kivan's furious eyes. Out of desperation Xan shouted one more time:

"I _suggest_ you retreat."

Suddenly Kivan's furry went out like snuffed candle. His eyes went blank, and then he whirled and dashed from between the ogre and the man in chainmail. With haste and unthinking precision Kivan sprinted to the wall and snatched his halberd from where he'd left it leaning, using its pole to vault atop the slanted roof of the stables. From there he ran and leapt over the filed points of the fortress wall, a splash echoing from the other side.

As Kivan made his escape Xan whispered a spell to himself and vanished from sight, turning from the battlefield and running as fast as his spindly legs would carry him for the gate. He expected a throwing axe or a bolt of magic in the back at any moment, but somehow he managed to race along the bridge and into the forest beyond.

* * *

Pressing a meaty hand to his mangled cheek, Tazok scowled and lifted the healing draught to his lips. He had to keep the sticky-sweet stuff from leaking through his wound, but once he had swallowed he felt the sting subside, replaced by a dull itch. Nice to feel the injuries across his body close; arm, belly, cheek and thigh, though the pain had been easy enough to shrug off.

All of Tazok's life was pain, every time he moved and stabs went through the shoulder that had never quite healed right. The shoulder where his father's axe had buried itself long ago. A little prick or cut on top of that was just annoyance.

"This one's still alive," Rezdan noted, brushing dust from his blue sleeve with one hand and pointing with the other.

So she was. The warrior-woman who lay face down in the dirt was breathing; the axe between her shoulder blades quivering as it rose and fell.

"Good," Tazok growled, stomping towards the crumpled body. He glanced at Drasus. "You keep her alive alright? Make sure she lasts a few days at least and this won't be a complete waste." Two of his elite men were dead; Kysus with his head caved in and Genthore with his throat bitten out by that wolf-woman before she turned into a crow and flew away. But at least he'd be able to have a little fun.

Bending down, Tazok planted a heavy boot on the injured woman's rump and gripped the handle of the axe, not hesitating to rip it out. She let out a satisfying howl of pain, though she bit it back quickly, anger there in her voice mixed with the agony. _Tough bitch_. _This could be a lot of fun._

With a heavy kick to the ribs Tazok turned the woman over onto her back. Sandy blonde hair spilled out from under her horned helmet, plastered to her forehead and chin with sweat. Her tan, scarred face was all scrunched up with pain and fury, dabbed here and there with purple warpaint. That scar was familiar. And the nose…

Tazok's thick brows knitted together and his sadistic grin sunk into a heavy grimace. He stared at that face for a good long time.

"Uh…" Drasus eventually interrupted. "What is it boss? You recognize the bitch?"

He stared a while longer, pondering. Maybe a quick sword thrust would be best. Not as satisfying as the usual fun he would have with a captured woman, but safer.

Safer, but not a sure bet. If her father ever found out…

And he would. That snake had ears everywhere. Always had a way of knowing. Hells, it was his main job, and why the big boss liked him so much.

A slow nod. "Patch her up," Tazok rumbled. "And no one lays a rough hand on her."

There was shock in Drasus' voice. "Really? You of all people… Uh. I mean, she's killed some of our boys…"

Tazok shrugged. "I've killed far more of our boys. When they questioned my orders. Patch her up, bind her wrists and feet, and we take her below."

Drasus shook his head in disbelief, and then shrugged. Tazok had a hard time believing it too. Of all the strange and twisted luck that Beshaba could piss down on you: a woman lands in his lap out of nowhere, and it's Angelo Dosan's crazy daughter!

An arrow catches Tazok in the face out of the blue, there's an unexpected battle. They manage to drive the bastards off and take a prisoner (a woman even!) and then it's not even someone he can have fun taking apart. _What a rotten fucking day!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The opening quote was originally just going to be 'Revenge is a dish best served cold' but I was happy with the variation on the proverb that came to me at the last minute. A shame Kivan didn't follow it's advice…
> 
> Some of you might think the move Ajantis does in the sparring match with Shar-Teel seems like cheating, but it's something he could have legitimately done with a sharpened sword. Medieval swords weren't actually that sharp, and if you're fighting with one you're probably wearing gauntlets or gloves anyway, so holding a sword by the blade and using the crossguard as a hammer was something knights would sometimes do.


	38. Gentlemen and Gentle Women

_ "No matter how clever a spellcaster thinks she is she'll never be able to ward herself against everything at once. Not you. Not me. Not the Simbul herself. There's always a way through." - _ Laspeera Inthre, _Mageduels: A Manual_

* * *

Imoen's stomach fluttered when she felt the buzz in her satchel. She leaned forward on the log by the campfire and her hand shot into the bag, eager to fish the mirror out.

"Heya!" she chirped by way of greeting, looking down at the familiar image on the surface of the glass; sandy hair and purple cloak and all. "Was just thinking of calling you up. I've got exiting news! We're heading your way! Just started huffing our way through the Cloakwood today, and we're going to help you with yer mission as soon as we can! Though…I think Coran's going to insist we bag ourselves a wyvern on the way there.

"You know," she went on, "Cloakwood isn't nearly as bad as you said. You made it seem downright impassable, but so far it's just a regular forest. Of course we _did_ fight one of those hunting parties of forest-goblins already. Glad you warned us 'bout always watching the treetops!"

When she finally took a breath Xan nodded his head slightly. "That's…good. I suppose," he managed, a cautious tone in his voice. Thinking about it, Imoen realized that his cloak looked a lot less bright than she remembered. It was muddy, stained and torn in places.

_ Hmm. _ And was he more morose than usual? It was so hard to tell. "You okay Xan? Though uh…I guess you're never completely okay huh? Part of yer charm."

"I suppose I am…less 'okay' than usual," Xan admitted. He took a deep breath and began to tell his story.

Imoen's eyes grew wider and wider as the elf calmly told her of the failed assault on the Cloakwood fort; the plan, the sudden appearance of Tazok. All of it. "I may be the only survivor now," Xan said once he had finished. "I have not seen Kivan or Faldorn since then. And I've no doubt that the Black Talons are hunting us. From time to time I hear the dogs."

"Well just hold tight okay." Imoen bit her lip, then added: "We're coming to rescue you."

Xan shook his head slightly. "Holding tight is not an option. I must stay on the move. And I will likely be long dead before you get anywhere close."

"Damnit Xan! Stop talking like that! Less doom and more invisibility spells. Keep moving, keep yer head down, and we _will_ sweep in ta rescue you. I promise!"

"Imoen, you have to be realistic-"

"I have to do no such thing, mister! I'm under no obligation at all to be realistic! You hear me?"

"I…hear," Xan managed. "I suppose I should know by now." Was that a wistful smile on his face? "You are not realistic at all. It is part of your charm."

He looked like he was about to say something else, then his eyes flicked from side to side and his face grew tense. "I must go now. It sounds as if the hunters grow closer." There was a waver like the surface of a pond being disturbed, then the mirror went dark, reflecting only the night sky above and leaving Imoen's heart sinking and her stomach in knots.

* * *

Curled up beneath the overhang, Xan kept his breath low and his ears open. The braying of the hounds definitely sounded more distant now, receding through the trees. Minutes ago the hunters had been close enough that human voices could be heard, but now there were only echoing howls and half-hearted yips.

The blue steel of the moonblade sat across his lap, and it would have been comforting to grip the sword as he waited for doom or salvation to find him in his hiding place. Unfortunately the glow the moonblade always took on in his hand was too much of a liability.

_ Yes, the hounds are gone now _ . No barking at all. He dared not hope too hard, but Xan was sure that his gambit had worked. The illusion he had conjured had drawn the hunters away and sent them down the wrong path. Supposedly the spell was powerful enough to duplicate odors, but he had been unsure whether it was precise enough to fool hunting dogs. Apparently it was, and at least for now the pack was tracking the ghost of Xan's scent.

There were no sounds in the forest now save the chirping of crickets and the call of a nightingale. Xan allowed himself a deep sigh. Then another. Perhaps he would get to see the cheerful girl again after all. _'We're coming to rescue you.'_ She had sounded so sure of it, though Xan knew there were still leagues and leagues of treacherous forest between them.

Suddenly the darkness of the woods was blocked by a burning orange figure, leaping from the rock and landing smoothly right in front of Xan. Easy breaths became a horrified gasp as the tall and thickly muscled intruder stomped forward, the hood falling from its face. Pointed ears came clearly into view.

_ Doom or salvation? _

A hand latched around Xan's throat, hard as iron, and he was roughly shoved back against the rock. He found himself feebly clawing at the fingers as they closed tight and squeezed the breath from him.

_ Doom then _ , he thought, somehow calm as the fingers clamped down and he let out a high-pitched, involuntary " _Hrrk_!"

_ Sy-tel-quessir blood runs so very hot. _

"You denied me my vengeance!" Kivan hissed in elven, shaking the frailer man like a rabbit in a wolf's jaws. "You _charmed_ me and forced me to flee!"

"Cor…correction," Xan managed to croak out. "I saved your…" A cough. "…your miserable life." If he was going to die he would die in the right! "Something you could not…do…for our… _gakk_!"

Kivan bared his teeth and snarled, then with another heavy slam against the rock he released his grip and took a step back.

His hand flying to his burning neck and rubbing, Xan struggled for breath. _Hot blood, but not always deadly._ Someone had once told him that the _sy-tel-quessir_ did not consider each other friends unless they had brawled at least once, and that even their mating (performed out in the open,) appeared the same as brawling to an outsider; affection and violence all rolled together.

Then again the elves of Evereska said a lot of things about the outside world that Xan had found to be untrue. His people were an insular and stodgy bunch, in all honesty.

By the time Xan managed to cough his way back to even breaths Kivan had dropped to the earth with a sullen look on his face, sitting cross-legged.

"You would not have had your vengeance," Xan ventured in a hoarse voice. His mind was running through spells that would incapacitate the wild elf, just in case, but the rage seemed to have passed. "That dreadful ogre lived up to his reputation. He shrugged off blows that would have killed a normal man. Blows that should have at least slowed him."

"I would have had my vengeance," Kivan sighed, "had my arrow landed a few finger-widths higher. I was aiming for the monster's eye."

Xan inclined his head. "And I very much wish vengeance had been yours. Much as we wish to think that our will can drive the course of events, battle often comes down to blind luck."

A grunt was the only reply for a long while. Eventually Kivan broke the silence. "Maybe. But it's my fault. My fault that the lad and the woman were killed."

Xan shrugged slightly. "It was only a matter of time. That big fool eagerly leapt in front of any blade he could find. I'm actually surprised he lasted this long."

Kivan just glared silently. A sharp glare. _Hm. Perhaps that was a bit callous. I forget that beneath the hood he actually does have feelings._ "I feel somewhat responsible as well," Xan added. "I hesitated when the ogre appeared and you attacked. I should have simply acted. If the mages had been incapacitated our plan may have worked in the end. Despite your idiocy."

If Kivan had even noticed the barb he showed no sign. He just stared at the dirt between them, and they sat in silence as the crickets made their racket and the nightbirds cried.

"As for the woman," Xan eventually said, "I think she may yet live. I renewed the geas upon her but four days ago, and have not felt it expire."

He had hoped that would reassure Kivan, but the wild elf's scowl just deepened. "Pray she does not last long then. For her sake."

* * *

Shar-Teel's eyes snapped open and she immediately surged up, sheets flying back as her hands clawed out. She had expected to wake up in bonds, like the ones she had felt on her wrists and ankles earlier when she was fading in and out of consciousness. Instead she found herself on a featherbed in a clean, sparse room with a floor of packed dirt and walls of stone.

_ Odd.  _

Her bare feet slapped the earth as she leapt from the bed and charged the nearby door.

Solid oak and firmly locked. So this was a cell after all, if a strangely comfortable one. And instead of prisoner's rags she was dressed in a soft green chemise, made of silk. _Odd and odder_. A little more self-inspection and she noted that her wounds were gone (obviously healed by magic,) and that someone had _bathed_ her while she was unconscious. Bathed her and dabbed her with perfume that smelled of lavender, her hair washed, combed, and even _braided._

She clenched her jaw tight and her upper lip curled. What was the game here? Had she been made presentable to serve as some sort of whore?

At least the fools had been careless. A few kicks to the bed and she had one of its legs dislodged, easily snapping it off. Not the best of clubs but it would do. For good measure she ripped a long strip from the bedsheet and wound the fabric up, holding it in her other hand. _A club and an effective garrote._ Her jailers were fools indeed. There was a reason most dungeon cells just contained a little pile of straw for bedding.

Finally Shar-Teel backed into a corner of the room that would be a blind spot to anyone opening the door, crouching against the wall. She relaxed her muscles, ready but not tensing. This could be a long wait, she knew. No need to get all sore or antsy.

Long and dull, but waiting was a part of the mercenary's life she had learned to deal with. Much as she loved the bloodshed, the waiting took up most of the job. Waiting for orders. Waiting in the forest for a camp of men to finally go to sleep. Waiting for the perfect time to launch an ambush.

Eventually her patience paid off and the door swung inward. There was a female voice, half-humming and half-muttering to herself. "Mmm bother and bother." Then a young woman in a roughspun dress stepped into view, her hair pulled back beneath a white kerchief and a pile of folded fabric in her arms. The servant gasped when she saw the state of the bed.

_ Shame it's not a man.  _ Shar-Teel pounced anyway, but she went gentler than she would have if it had been an armed guardsman. Gentle by her standards at least.

A blow to the back of the knee dropped the servant-girl, sending the bundled clothes flying as she hit the floor. In an instant Shar-Teel was behind and on top, tightening the wound-up sheet around the startled girl's neck. A little twisting and pressure turned the scream the servant was trying to let out into a strained croak. Shar-Teel waited the space of a breath, choking tight and firm with the sheet, then she hissed: "Don't you make a fucking sound!" in the servant's ear. Next she eased the pressure, just a little, and let her prisoner breathe.

For Shar-Teel _'gentle'_ meant you might live. Maybe.

Once her prisoner had gasped a bit Shar-Teel whispered again. "Now, you're going to answer every question I ask, and answer it truthfully, or the pressure's on again and not letting up 'till you're dead. Understand?"

"Ya…yes," the servant squeaked.

"Good. Now tell me-"

A sudden jolt through every muscle of Shar-Teel's body interrupted her. She found herself completely locked into place, hands and legs and scowl and all.

There was a dramatic sigh behind her, and something pressed firmly against Shar-Teel's side and pushed her over. Her makeshift garrote and club slipped from her hands as she fell, trapped in the same position she had been in on top of the servant; a knee bent and awkwardly stuck in the air.

An unseen woman's voice spoke with a vaguely Calishite accent. "Tazok said you would be trouble. I see he did not exaggerate." Another push and Shar-Teel was on her back, looking up at the newcomer. The Calishite's powder-blue dress was of a far better make than the servant's and she had an imperious air, nose upturned.

_ Bloody mages.  _ Shar-Teel would not be gentle with this one if she ever got the chance.

Shaking her head, the Calishite clicked her tongue. "There was some suggestion that we dress you up like a proper lady before returning you to your loving father. I suspect that may be an impossible task, but we shall see."

* * *

A good thing Xan had told them to watch the branches and treetops. He had said that tasoli ambushes and giant spiders would come from there; the nimble critters able to move from tree to tree and spring down on unaware travelers. Sure enough, in two days hiking through the Cloakwood they had spotted two separate bands of the feral forest-goblins up in the branches, still and silent as leaves; their little cat eyes the only thing giving them away.

Noticing the green critters early had allowed Imoen's band to strike preemptive-like, filling several of the tasoli with arrows and quarrels before they got close enough to thrust spears. Naturally it was Coran who saw them first, keen elven eyes and all that, and he didn't hesitate to start plinking arrows into the branches.

Imoen had held off at first, not shooting until the tasoli were rushing towards them with deadly intent. Didn't seem right to just start shooting critters just for being green and a bit ugly while lurking in a treetop. What if these particular goblins were just hunting for deer and would have left them alone if they hadn't shot first?

She had said as much to Coran, at the campfire the night after the first encounter, and he had chuckled and shook his head. 'They are always dangerous,' he had insisted before regaling the group with tales about war-bands of tasoli that had threatened his village back in Tethyr. Plenty of hunters he knew had stories of children going missing in the forest, and the searches had led to raids on tasoli tribes and revealed countless picked bones and elven and human corpses skewered over cookfires.

It made for some grizzly campfire tales (and Coran seemed to relish in the telling,) but Imoen was not entirely convinced. Second or third-hand stories and such. Didn't strike her as a good reason to murder _every_ green goblin with a spear you come across. Still, the next day when they spotted a clump of Tasoli in the trees ahead she hesitated a bit less, joining in fast once the arrows started flying. It was her job to shoot stuff, grim though it was.

Of course when she spotted the first giant spider she didn't hesitate at all with the arrows. She shot as many she could before the squirming, eight-legged thing got close. _Yick!_

Xan had been right about the Cloakwood's terrain as well. At first it seemed little different from the tall trees and uneven ground of the Wood of Sharp Teeth, but as they went deeper it grew steep and rocky and the trees got taller and broader than any Imoen had ever seen. A few days travel and it became a wild, primeval place; much of the wood untouched by man or axe for ages.

After a long, sweaty afternoon climb over mossy stones and around clawing brambles it was nice when they finally came to level ground and something close to a wide, open field. Imoen had just started feeling grateful and a little relaxed when movement drew her eyes and everyone turned and froze at the sight of a figure following them through the high grass and flowers.

Weapons were ready in a snap and Ashura got in front, but the man that was jogging towards them waved empty hands in the air. He was huffing and well out of breath when he got close, bending over to grip his knees.

A tall man, tanned, handsome and well-muscled; he looked even more the classic swashbuckler from a lurid storybook than Coran could on his best days. Or at least he dressed the part: a snappy outfit of leather and muted brown wool with a little gold trim here and there for dash, open at his chest and bare at his arms beyond some leather bracers. There was a case slung over his shoulder that looked the size and shape of a lute, along with a curved sword at his hip. He had a black, immaculately trimmed goatee and long hair tied smartly back, the satisfied sneer on his face present even as he puffed hard from his run.

Look up 'rake' in the dictionary and you'd probably see a picture of this fellow, next to the gardening implement. Least that was the look he seemed to be going for. It made Imoen a bit suspicious, and Ashura looked downright ready to start swinging her blades. She was glaring hard at the newcomer.

"Sorry if I seem out of breath," the man panted, putting careful and dramatic enunciation to every word. "A battle you see. I was ambushed by a dozen gnolls farther on the trail. I handily dispatched them of course, but thought better of fighting their six ogre friends."

"Uh huh," Ashura grunted.

The man ignored her glare. "A jest. A jest." He looked around. "Gentlemen, gentlewomen. May I introduce myself? I am Eldoth Kron." A theatrical flourish of his hand. "You have been _quite_ the pain to track down."

Ashura shifted to more of a fighting stance, eyes sharp as daggers. "You're an assassin aren't you?"

The exaggerated act slipped a bit and Eldoth looked genuinely taken aback. "Uh? No. Why on Toril would you think that?"

Silence, cold eyes and colder steel were the only answer from Ashura.

"Well," Imoen spoke up, trying to cut through the awkwardness. "Why _did_ you track us? And who were you tracking exactly?" He really didn't seem like he had expected the hostility.

"Apologies. I had hoped to find you in more civilized climes." He reached to a bag at his belt and pulled out a large bottle of sloshing liquid. "I've been searching for the survivors from Eddard Silvershield's caravan, you see. I'm an acquaintance of the lad's family, and had hoped to learn his fate, though I suspect after all this time it's rather grim."

"He's dead, yeah," Ashura stated flatly.

Eldoth nodded and pulled the cork from the bottle. He didn't look too shaken by the news. "Selgauntian brandy," he said. "An offering of peace while we talk?"

"Are you kidding?" Ashura growled.

He gave her a puzzled wince.

"She uh, thinks it might be poisoned," Garrick offered helpfully.

"Ah," Eldoth realized with a frown. "You really are a strange one." With a flick of his wrist he brought the bottle to his lips and took a long, dramatic gulp. "It's perfectly safe. If you wish I suppose I could down it all myself." A chuckle.

Coran stepped forward. "Not a chance of that friend." He reached out a hand. "I'll have a taste." With a smirk back towards Ashura he added: "I can be your royal poison-tester, m'lady."

Ashura shrugged as Coran took a drink. "So what do you want from us caravan guards? Hiked all this way just to hear that Eddard's dead?"

"A little more than that," Eldoth admitted as he shared the bottle. "Eddard's father -the wealthiest man in Baldur's Gate I might add- has been eager for news of his son. I hope to be the one to deliver it to him, with your help testifying. I had wished to find Eddard himself of course, but you caravan guards," he swept a hand in their direction, "are the next best thing."

"This is good stuff, by the way," Coran noted, offering the bottle to the others. "Smooth but with a bite. Reminds me of someone." He grinned at Viconia, who ignored him.

"If you aren't dead in a few more minutes I'll take a swig," Imoen offered. "So save me some."

"You're hoping for a reward from the family or something?" Ashura asked. That did seem a weak reason to go running through a forest famous for deadly monsters, Imoen had to agree.

Eldoth shook his head. "Suffice it to say I just wish for a legitimate reason to meet with Entar Silvershield. In his estate."

"So you're trying to assassinate this Entar guy?"

Eldoth groaned, an offended look on his face. "Why is it always assassinations with you?" There was some frustration in his voice as he added: "I am _not_ an assassin!"

"You want in for a burglary," Imoen guessed as she reached for the brandy and decided to live dangerously. When it touched her tongue she cringed a little. Strong stuff. Sweet after the first bite, though. It left a warm tingle behind.

"Exactly!" Eldoth said with a grin and a snap of his fingers. "This lovely lady gets it. And by your look I'd guess you're familiar with the concept of a good heist. I intend to snatch up Entar Silvershield's most prized possession, you see. The old man once slighted my family, and I wish to pay him back. But first I need a way in."

Coran chuckled. "Now that sounds like a good lark. I've seen the estates in Baldur's Gate but I never dared _that_ place. It's an impressive house, and impressively secure-looking."

"Not that I object to a little burglary," Imoen interjected, "but we're a bit busy at the moment."

"I suspected as much. Few wander the Cloakwood on a whim. Speaking of which." Eldowth rubbed the back of his head. "Regardless of whether you wish to help with my plan or not may I ask if I could..?"

"Tag along?" Imoen asked with a raised eyebrow, followed by another sip of brandy.

"Help you with your business here. Safety in numbers and all that. When I started following your trail I had no idea how dangerous these woods could be. There was this _most_ unsightly nest of giant spiders I barely managed to avoid."

"May be more than you want to chew," Ashura said, waving her hand to decline when Imoen offered her the brandy. Apparently she still suspected poison. "We're here to rescue a friend."

"Not a bother," Eldoth stated confidently. "I've been known to rescue damsels in distress myself."

"We're also hunting wyverns," Coran put in with a grin.

"Hm. Nasty beasts."

"There's a bounty."

Eldoth perked up at that. "Well, I've been known to dabble at being a hunstsman. Not my forte but…"

"And we're going to ransack a fortress full of mercenaries," Ashura added. "Old dwarven clanhold. Gods know how deep, and full of these annoying assholes from Iriaebor who have a bone to pick with me. We're going to kill every last one of them."

"Oh. Well…" Eldoth grimaced and glanced back at the forest path he had emerged from.

Viconia gave a haughty snort. "Bah. He expects us to help him with his scheme but won't risk his neck or lift his sword in return. What a useless little male."

Eldoth seemed to puff up just a bit, placing a hand on the hilt of his sword. "M'lady, I assure you that I am far from useless. I can lift this sword just fine." He clapped his hands. "I'll be happy to help with your little…adventure or whatever it is, if you assist me in Baldur's Gate after it is all said and done."

Ashura shrugged. "I won't turn away a helping sword." A glare. "If you really are an assassin playing some game though…"

Eldoth sighed and rolled his eyes.

"How did you manage to track us anyway?" Imoen asked.

"Easy enough. There was a trail of dead tasoli."

"Of course."

* * *

"They pursue us still," Kivan stated grimly, his head cocked as he listened in the still afternoon air. "Close now."

"Of course they are," Xan sighed. He could hear the yips of the hounds just as well. Such a useless gesture: trying to flee from the hunters. His feet chafed from the water sloshing in his shoes and every muscle in his body ached, but the hounds just got closer and closer, even after two pointless days following every stream they could find in an attempt to throw them off. He suspected magic was being used to track them now, after the first hunting party had failed. For the hundredth time that day Xan wished that he knew a good ward against scrying, but that sort of spell was beyond him.

Which left them with few options. "Turn and fight?" he asked the ranger, exhaustion in his voice.

"Seems it will come to that," Kivan admitted. He glanced at the halberd in his hand; the walking stick he had managed to hold onto the entire time. The gnoll weapon had always struck Xan as an odd thing for the ranger to carry along with his longbow, but perhaps it was similar to the spears the wild elf hunters trained with. "Wish I had my bow," Kivan added. "We could lay a better ambush that way."

Xan shrugged and looked down at his moonblade, drawn but useless-looking in his hand. "We must make do with what we have. I have always been a terrible fencer, but," -he swung the sword weakly- "here I am, unworthy yet carrying this blade."

The taller elf actually chuckled and clapped Xan on the shoulder. "You're worthy enough." He looked around. "Best we choose our ground."

In the end they found a decent wall of jutting rocks, rich with moss and lichen and accessible by a narrow, uphill path through brambles. The two elves would be trapped of course, but the hunters would have to come two-by-two at best. A good place for a hopeless last stand.

Once the shielding spell was firmly in place around Xan's body he turned to his companion. "I shall try to find you in Arvandor."

Kivan shook his head slightly, planting his halberd and watching the path where the hunters would soon emerge. "Not dying today. Got unfinished business."

A grim chuckle. "May the Black Archer keep you then, till your business is concluded."

"And may Labelas guide you through long days," Kivan said, a blessing in the name of Xan's patron god. It was a noble gesture, all in all.

The barking was close now, and with his pulse pounding in his ears Xan readied his empty offhand. He had a spell of _confusion_ ready. If he could time it right and strike the bulk of them it might even do some good. Perhaps Tazok himself would clear the rise, and if the spells landed right Kivan could die with his bloody debt repaid. It was as cheerful a thought as Xan could muster at the moment.

Two hunting hounds bounded into the clearing, immediately followed by a dark haired man in fine blue clothes. He was grinning ear to ear, hands raised high, and there was a faint shimmer all around him.

Xan's mouth fell open briefly, then his jaw tightened and his lips formed a hard line. _My old friend, the abjurer._ It was easy to guess what would happen if he threw a confusion spell forward now. Orderly lines of hobgoblins marched behind the mage, spreading out: two, four, six, then eight.

With a resigned sigh Xan pointed his fingers. The spell was his one hope, even if it was about to vanish in a flash of counterspelling. No hope at all really, but that had always been his lot.

Before Xan could begin his pointless incantation there was a flash of black fur nearby. For less than a heartbeat a great cat alighted on a nearby rock, then it flew down and collided with the abjurer, forepaws turning the man's body slightly as its jaws parted and teeth gleamed. There was a flash of color when the fangs and claws struck some sort of barrier, but with a crackle the clamping jaws prevailed and the magic broke in a shower of energy and blood.

The two figures rolled, and once they had settled the black cat shot to its feet and shook the limp man by his neck. A few thrashes and then it tossed the abjurer to the ground, his arms and legs twisted at awkward angles and his neck a mangled ruin that pumped gushes of red across the grass.

The hobs had swung into action, aiming arrows at the panther and drawing swords, but by then Xan had found his voice. A toss of his wrist threw the spell of _confusion_ into their midst, and the orderly lines shattered. There were shouts of alarm, howls of rage, useless chittering, and not a single arrow flew at the great cat before it leapt onto the nearest goblin.

Kivan followed the panther without hesitation, his halberd cleaving out and then stabbing with the spike at the disorganized soldiers, and a moment later Xan shook himself and joined. A holding spell locked a few of the creatures that were still putting up a fight into place, and as Kivan and the panther ran after the ones that had fled, Xan walked over and numbly delivered a killing blow to each immobilized hobgoblin.

One slice across the throat. Then a second, and a third. In moments the slaughter was finished and he found himself standing alone on the hill, surrounded by corpses. With a cringe Xan noticed that the fallen abjurer was still breathing; fast deep breaths through a mouth smeared with bubbling blood, his eyes wide and twitching. His neck looked broken and torn open, but apparently not all the life's blood had spilled.

Pressing his lips together and stepping closer, Xan took a deep gulp of breath before finishing the job the panther had started. As he pulled his moonblade free of the shuddering body he felt no sense of satisfaction; just ice in his knotted stomach.

What an ugly occupation he had found himself in. Perhaps he should have taken up accounting instead, as his sister had once suggested. _'You're so tidy Xanisteirial, and you've a good head on your shoulders. You should find yourself a nice, safe trade.'_

Grunts and screams echoed from the low ground, and in little time Kivan appeared again, walking up the path with the panther padding along just behind. It did not surprise Xan in the least when the cat's gleaming fur rippled and the muscular shoulders narrowed, becoming a dark-haired girl and rising from four legs to two. Faldorn's tired, tattooed face looked up from her tangled hair, and once again the wild-girl's mouth was smeared with blood. Xan found it disquieting; how readily she became a predator and did not hesitate to bite. Still, it was good that she had survived.

"You found us," Xan observed. "My thanks for the timely intervention."

Faldorn shrugged slightly. "Never lost you."

"You..?" Xan gave her a puzzled look. "Were you…an animal this whole time? Why didn't you tell us?"

Plopping down on the grass cross-legged, the druidess shrugged again. "As a raven I could follow you just fine, and safely. No reason to change back."

With a heavy sigh, Xan sunk to the earth as well and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Of course."

He could have said something about the importance of a chain of command. Lectured about how every member of the war party should have a clear role. And communicate. And follow a coherent plan even in the most chaotic of circumstances. But really, he knew he would never be able to control the actions of these two maniacs who seemed to be following him.

_ Oh, what is the point?  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gentle women from the chapter title are Shar-Teel and Faldorn, of course.
> 
> Eldoth is a strange one: his character is a paragon of selfishness but you meet him on the way to a big dungeon invasion that he's happy to tag along and help you with it, putting his personal quest off as long as the player likes. He also introduces himself by telling you his incredibly sleazy plan upfront, which doesn't really fit a conniving manipulator-type. I tried to tweak that just a little, with him presenting himself as a loveable rogue and being a bit reluctant about the whole Cloakwood mission.


	39. Highsun Games

_"And once the players have reached the opposite end of the field and paired up with whoever has their matching sock the one left out is declared 'the Odd Ogre.' Now in the next round the ogre…" –_ Olive Ruskettle, _Games to Play on Highsun Camping Trips_

 

* * *

Two by two they walked beneath the trees, the shade of the high elms broken here and there by shards of golden light. Ashura and Coran took the lead, her hand on the hilt of a sword and his keen elven eyes sweeping the path ahead.

Behind them walked Garrick and Eldoth. The young bard had perked up when he learned that the newcomer was an entertainer like himself, and he kept plying the older bard for stories. Eldoth indulged him only a little, with a lot of shrugs and a bored look on his face. "Really, I was never in any sort of troupe or whatever it is you do," he had said early on in a discouraging tone. "I just picked up a lot of songs from the skalds of Ruathym when I was young, and I do what I can to get by."

At the rear walked Imoen and Viconia, the girl's head tilted up and enjoying the shafts of sparkling sunlight as they passed through them, the drow doing just the opposite; head down and hood as far over her face as she could manage.

"I do wish we could travel by night," Viconia groused. "I shall simply never understand how you surfacers abide the blinding white everywhere."

"We don't see it that way," Imoen said with a shrug. "Literally. Hrm. Do your eyes just not adjust?"

"They have by small measures, over these past two years. Perhaps eventually I could learn to tolerate it almost as you do, but why should I when there is such a thing as night?"

Imoen giggled. "I suppose _I_ could travel at night. Can see in the dark thanks to my magic ring. And Shura has her helmet. Coran's got infravision too. But we'd have poor Garrick stumbling around in the dark behind us, and now that Eldoth fellow's tagging along. Doubt his nightvision's that good."

"Easily remedied. Garrick is the weakest link in our band. We should be rid of him."

"Aww. No way! He doesn't serenade me anymore now that he's stuck himself to Ashura but he still tells the best campfire stories! And I like the harp music at night. Helps sooth me to sleep."

"Perhaps this new male will tell superior stories. He seems a musician as well. And I prefer him to the youthful riivan already. Impressive musculature, and more importantly he has a confidence and surety I rarely see in surface males."

A glance over at Viconia confirmed that the drow's eyes were firmly fixed on Eldoth's hindquarters. Imoen rolled her eyes. "He's certainly sure of himself. Full of himself might be a better way to put it though. Anyways, get rid of Garrick and we still have one pair of eyes short on infravision. Not to mention in a forest like this it's probably safer to travel by day."

"Truly?" They were approaching an open clearing, tall grass shining a vibrant green in the full summer sun.

"Most predators are nocturnal. I read that somewhere. There're all sorts of nasty beasties that are sleeping now, while we're enjoying the sunlight." She tilted her head up as they entered the meadow, smiling. All this time outdoors was giving her a bit of a tan, now that the sun-burning was out of the way. Old Puffguts' natural daughters would be jealous; they had always been trying to sun themselves on the battlements or rooftops when they had a little time off because they read somewhere that tan skin was fashionable. Most times they just got lobster-red and extra annoyed.

A regular bronzed outdoorswoman. That's what she was becoming, strange as it was to think. Had even lost a little weight with all the footsore hiking, though she was still far from the stick she knew Viconia was under the formless, baggy clothes, nor did she have Ashura's corded leanness. Hopefully she never would; what would Puffguts say if she went back home with no meat on her bones?

Rushing wind just behind them caught Imoen's attention, and she turned her head just as something blurry and massive came streaking in. Streaking in close!

Imoen opened her mouth to gasp but it turned into a scream at the bone-jarring impact. Both arms were near ripped from their sockets, and her limp legs were suddenly peddling at empty air. There was agony in her right arm, dagger-sharp at her bicep, and the field and the trees and the sky were all a rushing blur.

She squirmed and screamed, the sun blotted out by a great shadow just above. Wind buffeted her face, and it seemed that the shadow was _flapping_. There was a great downward pressure on her guts, and a giddy, bloodless sensation in her head. Was she…flying?

Blinking back tears she saw the grass rush by -so far below!- and something flashed by her torso and slapped her side, bruising her ribs before it whipped back. _A tail_ , it seemed. And where those talons that were gripping her arms?

She didn't have time to make sense of it before there was a high, eagle-like scream just above her and one of the talons loosened, then let go. Now she was dangling in the air, and the grass was streaking by closer and closer as she struggled and mindlessly squirmed. Vaguely she realized that her voice was growing hoarse from all the screaming, her breath spent.

Another inhuman cry from the creature that was holding her, and then she was flung through empty air. The grass flew up with terrifying speed, followed by an impact that knocked the last breath from her lungs and all sense from her skull.

_Where am I?_ was the first near-coherent thought that came to her as she awakened on the ground.

Perhaps not the best question. At the moment she wasn't even sure _who_ she was. Felt like she needed to move though, so with every muscle and bone and sinew aching she flopped and pushed her way to her feet.

Twenty paces distant a massive beast was thrashing in the field, barbed scorpion-tail whipping and wings spread out, its draconic mouth open and hissing. A woman with a plumed helmet and dark hair spilling from the back danced before the creature (a wyvern?) armed with twin shortswords that constantly spun and darted.

_Ashura_ . That was the woman's name, she realized after a dull blink. _Have to help her._ There was a bow in Imoen's hand, and thankfully the string was still taut. She snatched an arrow from her quiver and took aim at the wyvern, realizing dumbly that there were other figures around the creature. A pitched battle.

Imoen drew her arrow back. She had to make sure to hit the big thrashing lizard and not any of her friends.

An avian cry and movement on the periphery drew Imoen's eye and her bow went along with it. _"Fuck!"_ she found herself mouthing in disbelief and horror, eyes alighting on a second wyvern as it swept in from the treetops. A gigantic creature, at least as large as the first, its wings stretched out and its tail curled.

Somehow she managed to mouth some more words after the curse, half-realizing what she was doing just as the surge of arcane energy began to build. It started in her guts and rose to her lungs, slowing her breath and calming her down. The sensation climbed higher from there, energy gathering in her eyes.

Everything slowed and came into absolute focus. She could have counted every ugly bump on the wyvern's snout if she wanted to, but Imoen had better ideas. The bow was already drawn, steel arrowhead gleaming in the sun. It was such a simple matter to tilt it just a little up, to clear all the breath from her lungs, and to let go of the string.

Time sped up, the arrow a streak of wood and steels and flapping feathers. Sharp and merciless, it plunged directly into the wyvern's left eye.

Imoen couldn't help but smile. Now _that_ would be something to brag to Coran about.

Unfortunately the arrow didn't seem to stop or even slow the great beast, and it glided on, closing in as fast as Imoen's arrow had. She thought to dive away, but by then the wing was colliding with her stomach, heavy as an ogre's punch, and she doubled over and went flying.

Once again the ground flew up to meet her and her head filled with dancing lights.

When Imoen shook some sense back into her head and forced herself to pull up and out of the cool embrace of the grass for the second time, she saw Ashura struggling with a wyvern once more. This time her friend was straddling the great reptile's neck, stabbing her swords down into the back of the creature's skull again and again. And this time the wyvern had an arrow in its eye. Had that been hers?

As the wyvern's struggles slowed and Imoen caught her breath she noticed that there was another great bulk lying in the meadow nearby. She also began to feel a thousand deep aches, and a sharp throbbing in her arm accompanied by a wet trickle. Lucky, she guessed, that the beast that had snatched her had only dug its claws into one spot. Lucky its tail hadn't run her through either.

Lucky to be alive.

Along with the aches, pins, stabs and ragged breaths came a nasty smell, and she realized numbly that she must have soiled herself. _Ah well_ , at least she had a good excuse this time. Snatched up by a wyvern and then tossed around like a ragdoll. She had been really embarrassed the first time she had lost control of her bladder and bowels in a scrap, all those months ago when the wolves had jumped her and Ashura on the Lion's Way. Thankfully Ashura hadn't noticed or hadn't said anything at the time.

Both wyverns were just twitching a bit when Imoen managed to shamble over and join the rest. Viconia instantly rushed to her side, examining her injured arm. "It appears not all predators hunt at night," the drow noted.

"True enough," Imoen muttered back. Turning, she found Coran standing at her other side. Imoen pointed. "Right through the eye," she managed to say, her words a little slurred.

"Aye," Coran agreed with a hearty smile, patting her once on the shoulder then withdrawing his hand when she winced. "A fine, fine shot."

"And thanks fer peppering that thing with arrows so it let me go. Think it wanted to carry me off like an owl with a mouse," Imoen said with a shudder.

"Of course." Coran nodded. "Garrick was the one who got off the first bolt, by the way. A cool head on those shoulders." He smiled over at the lad. "Nice shot too."

"Thanks," Garrick said, a little pride but mostly worry on his face as he looked at Imoen.

_Must look quite the mess._ She felt intact though, at least. "So now we've got a pair of wyvern heads," she noted. "How are we going to carry the big gory trophies around though?"

Coran frowned. Apparently he hadn't thought of that.

 

* * *

Her pretty, superior face all scrunched up in a deep scowl, Hareishan rubbed the growing bruise on her jaw. "If you wish to act like an animal," she growled at the chair her men had just flung Shar-Teel onto, "you shall be treated as one!"

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Shar-Teel snarled right back, her wrists and ankles now locked in place with manacles, and her knuckles just a little sore from the punch she had delivered. She hocked up what phlegm she could and chucked it at the Calishite, but Hareishan managed to dodge.

They shared a glare for a time, then Shar-Teel grew impatient and swept the room with her eyes. It was obviously a torture chamber, what with the brown stains on the floor and walls and the roughcut tables covered with mismatched steel implements. If the cruel saws, needles and rusted pliers left any doubt, then the two naked, emaciated men who hung from chains on the far wall drove the point home. They appeared to be corpses; unmoving and covered with open wounds and old black burns, but perhaps the men still clung to life. Hard to tell.

"So," Shar-Teel snapped, looking back at her captor, "let's get to the torture already!" Hareishan just glared at her with narrow eyes, and Shar-Teel glanced over at the two men who had hauled her into the chamber. "Or is rape-by-proxy more your game? Doubt these pathetic excuses for men could get much of a peep out of me, but maybe they're packing more than you'd expect. Let's see 'em! Drop trou, you shrimps!"

The guards were scowling just as deeply as the Calishite witch now, and Shar-Teel gave them a sneer for good measure.

"I was hoping the decor here would snap some sense into you," the witch muttered.

"Ha!" Shar-Teel barked. "Sounds like you've got no leverage at all then. No rape and no torture allowed for me? And if you had a spell that would charm me into obedience I'm guessing you would have used it by now."

"I have plenty of electrical spells ready." The witch held up her fingers, thumb and index a hairbreadth apart. "And I'm _this_ close to turning you into a shuddering, blackened, burnt-out husk, orders or no."

"Then fucking _do_ it!" Shar-Teel challenged her. "Not the death I'd have chosen, but I'll go to the abyss with a smile on my lips knowing you've brought the wrath of Tazok down on you."

Muscles in Hareishan's face twitched, obviously at war with each other.

"You can't though, can you? Ha! Even after I jabbed old uncle Tazok in his thigh he decided to let me live, and left orders 'bout it huh? Can't touch me can you? For all your highness and preening."

Hareishan stamped her foot and whirled towards her men. "That is _it_!" she snapped. "We are going to do exactly as she asks!" She pointed at the guards. "You two-"

"Uh…miss?" one of the men interrupted. "I don't think that's a good idea."

The other one frowned. "Yeah. Orders or no I don't really want-"

"Don't tell me you don't want to show this bitch-" Hareishan began.

"They have the right of it!" A booming voice echoed through the chamber, Tazok's bulky figure twisting his way through the door frame.

"Master Tazok," Hareishan stammered. "I-"

The ogre silenced her with a wave of his hand. "She's quite a mouth on her," he said with a shrug. "Always got her in trouble. You should have just gagged her." He waved his hand towards the doorway. "Out."

The three humans scurried past him and out of sight as fast as they could.

Once they were gone the ogre shook his head and took a few more stomping steps into the room. "Really Rashelt? I've seen prisoners do a lot of things in my time, but trying to taunt someone _into_ torturing you? Out of spite? That's a new one."

"I use whatever weapon is at hand," Shar-Teel said, shrugging as much as she could in the bonds. "Spite was the only thing available. And it suits me well enough."

Tazok just shook his head. "You're the biggest ingrate I've ever met, Rashelt. I remember a pretty little girl with pigtails who didn't want for anything. Next thing I hear you've run off with some wild woman, gotten that pretty face scarred and rearranged your name into something silly. 'Shar-Teel?' Is it supposed to sound intimidating or something?"

"My father was going to marry me off to some pig three times my age!"

"Yeah yeah yeah. Bird in a gilded cage and all that rot." The ogre snorted. "Still no idea how good you had it compared to most. And your pa and I killed a _lot_ of people to give you that life." He reached down and examined a pair of pliers. They were worn, rusty, and looked like they had seen a lot of unfortunate teeth.

"How I'd love to show you." A scowl. "Show you how bad life can _truly_ get, down here in my favorite room in the complex." He pointed the pliers at one of the men hanging from the wall. "Got a whole tenday of screaming out of Minnois over there. He only just expired this morning."

Shar-Teel grinned. "And you have far more reason to go at it with me I'll wager."

"Eh?"

"What? News about your little army in the Sharp Teeth hasn't gotten back here?" The ogre's eyes narrowed. "The whole camp burned to the ground, the hobs and Black Talons cut down and scattered; the entire operation in in ruins. I was there. Watched big Tenhammer Khousan himself get dragged off like a common criminal by the Flaming Fist. Hope they have his head mounted on the Wyrms Gate by now." She bared her teeth and gave the ogre her best smile.

"Didn't particularly care which direction the mercenaries who hired me said to point my blade," Shar-Teel went on, "but I laughed when I found out they were going after-"

With a sudden jolt she was flying. When the chair struck the wall it broke with a bone-jarring crack and she fell belly-first to the dirt. Shaking her head to clear it, Shar-Teel scrambled on her hands and knees, eyes focusing on a nearby table. She launched herself towards it, reaching for a knife and moving as fast as she could in the confining dress Hareishan had put her in. Tazok's bulk reached her first, his shadow blocking the lamplight, and a massive hand caught her by the throat before she could grab the knife.

Slammed against the stone of a nearby wall, Shar-Teel clawed at fingers that were nearly the size of her own wrists, the breath choked out of her. Eventually the pressure let up just a little, and with bleary eyes she looked up at the ogre.

"Very tempting," Tazok growled again, then his mouth twisted up at the tusks; his version of a smile. "But you're coming back to Baldur's Gate with me. Alive. We'll be leaving in a few days." The sneer grew. "Your father's been practicing the perfect spells for your return. Powerful enchantments. So enjoy the few days you have left with a free mind. When he's done with you you'll _want_ to marry the first old, rich pig he picks. You'll _want_ to breed him some nice little piglet grandchildren." He laughed. "You'll be happy baking cookies for them all, meek and barefoot and pregnant by the stove."

There was a sadistic gleam in the ogre's eye as he saw her defiant expression break, replaced by a look of horror. "Good. Everyone's got a weak spot and I think I just found yours." Another laugh, and then he twisted the knife. "I'll have to see if Hareishan or Natasha can dig up any good enchantments in the meantime. Give you a taste of what's to come. We'll make you a good blushing bride and put your family back on the map, one way or another."

 

* * *

"Please. You're going to crush me." The words weren't exactly spoken with panic though, and Xan found himself patting Imoen's shoulder as the short girl's arms enveloped him.

"I know yer boney but I'm not _that_ strong." Her voice was muffled against his chest, and she rocked from side to side a bit. Eventually there was a chuckle. "Hehe. Real boney. I think yer even thinner than the last time I did this, back when the caravan got attacked and I thought you were dead."

Tilting back, Imoen looked up with shining eyes. "Just as glad now as I was then."

Xan nodded slightly. "Relieved to see you in one piece as well, despite the odds." The meeting place was on the bank of a river, beneath a big willow oak thick with hanging moss. Seven exhausted faces surrounded the human and the elf, dirty from long days of travel and battle. Some looked relieved, others just tired, and Kivan was glaring hard at the cloaked figure of the drow.

"Yeah, it was something," Imoen said. "Almost ended up wyvern-food at one point."

"A fate I am familiar with."

"Doubt you got snatched up in one of those critter's talons like a rabbit though."

Xan allowed himself a grim laugh. "You always have such stories."

"Just glad I'll be able to tell 'em in person now." Another hug, and she pressed her head against his chest. For a time Xan stood there awkwardly, but gradually his shoulders relaxed and he found himself patting her back. There would be planning ahead, and very likely battles as well, but for now he couldn't think of anything better than standing there and being grateful to be alive. Grateful even, that some other people were alive as well.

 

* * *

At the height of another stifling mid-elesias afternoon the pond looked quite inviting. A little muddy and wild perhaps, ringed with green scum at the edges, but the water was also mostly shaded, a few shafts of sunlight filtering down through the thick elm branches and hanging willows.

"Looks like a decent swimming hole," Ashura observed, setting down her pack and getting a closer look, Coran at her side. She tossed a rock, thoughtfully watching the ripples, then shrugged and walked to the water's edge. No monsters or snakes were stirred up, which seemed good enough for her. She started tugging at the strings that held her boots tight.

"If we're going to swim I guess we should take turns," Garrick suggested. "The ladies can go first of course." By the time he had spoken up Ashura and Coran were halfway out of their clothes already, and they ignored him as they went about with the rest. "Uh…" the young bard stammered.

Eldoth was beside him now, slipping off his boots as well. He patted Garrick on the arm. "Haven't you ever been to a festhall before?" the bigger man asked, sly grin on his face as always. He walked on.

"Not really, no," Garrick managed.

There was a shrug beside him, and Imoen gave him a smile. "It's okay. Not like we all haven't seen you naked before."

Garrick frowned, color rising to his cheeks. "Pointing that out doesn't really help."

By then Ashura and Coran had fully undressed and were standing side by side on a big, sun-bleached rock, her pale backside and scars contrasting with his tattoos and copper-tone skin. They exchanged a glance and a laugh, then both plunged at once into the water, twin splashes flying high.

Eldoth followed shortly, and Imoen spent some time on the shore trying to coax Xan and Garrick into the water. "Come on, aren't elves supposed to frolic? This is the perfect spot for frolicking!"

"You should know well by now that I do _not_ frolic."

"Then just swim a bit!" A giggle. "Tomorrow's gonna be all about ugly business, and I'm determined to wheedle some fun out of you."

In the end Xan relented and followed Imoen into the water, the girl slipping beneath the surface in her underclothes before eventually tossing them onto a nearby rock. Being an elf Xan had little compunction about undressing in mixed company, but 'fun' was another matter. He did his best to stay stony-faced.

Even Garrick went in eventually, wading carefully into the water with his breechcloth still tied around his waist. Faldorn was gone as usual, likely off scouting in animal form, and that left a pair of very mismatched elves sitting by the pond.

 

* * *

Waves splashed the shore, propelled by stroking arms and kicking feet, and the surface of the water glistened like a hundred diamonds. Above it all constant laughter rose into the air.

Kivan found he was enjoying the sight and the music more than he would have thought. Before, all of his thoughts had revolved around finding Tazok and paying the monster the debt long owed. Now he was less certain.

He sat on a rock in the shade of a willow tree, diligently sharpening the blade of his halberd while most of the others swam. Ajantis would have never approved; on their journey he had much to say about how inappropriate it was for unmarried members of the opposite sex to bathe together, eliciting a lot of eye-rolling from Shar-Teel. Now that he was gone there was no one to object. A sad thought; Kivan missed the naïve youth. He would have traded away his quest for vengeance if it brought Ajantis -or even Shar-Teel- back. But wishing could not make it so.

The sight of the sparkling water was inviting, here in the last flaming of days of summer, but someone had to stand watch over these young fools while they played.

Of course, sitting on the shore and standing guard had left Kivan in strange company. He glanced over at the drow, leaning in the shade of a separate tree and holding her cowl close, as if the sun was her worst enemy. Her cold, violet eyes were fixed on Kivan.

"What?" the wild elf growled, glaring across at the dark creature.

"The other _darthiir_ bares me no malice," Viconia stated, inclining her head towards the wood elf who was happily trying to dodge Ashura's splashes.

"He is a fool," Kivan replied.

"Bah! I bare you no malice as well! Why can you not see that? We are even alike, in a manner. I have noticed that you follow a god of vengeance. I do the same."

"Mine is a god of vengeance _against_ the drow!"

"And you think I would not hesitate to kill every drow who has wronged me? The treacheries of Menzoberranzan destroyed my house, killed the few people I ever loved and threw me out into the underdark! If you offered to help me hunt members of House Do'Urden I would certainly not refuse."

"It is not-"

"Oh, I think it is much the same. You think me devious, treacherous and complex, but I tell you now: I am a simple woman. If someone wrongs me I destroy them without mercy. Leave me alone and I do the same."

"Then just leave me alone," Kivan growled, returning his gaze to the halberd. Thankfully she fell silent as well.

To his annoyance he still sensed the eyes upon him though, and eventually he felt compelled to speak. "I have suspicions still. The way you try to influence the girl. She is innocent."

"Influence? Bah! She is simply _abbil_. She saved my life, and more than that she has shown me kindness no one else on the surface has."

"So you pledged your devotion to her?"

A glance up and he saw that Viconia was smirking. "Something like that. The first night we shared a room I offered to pleasure her. I thought it would repay the debt, and perhaps was what she had in mind when first I was saved, but she politely declined. What was it she said? 'I don't really swing that way…' Such an odd phrase. A shame."

Kivan snorted. "It is as my people say of the drow. They know nothing of love, only the exchange of 'favors.'"

She was not offended. "There is some truth to that."

Silence fell over them again, and lasted until a figure emerged from the water, dripping as he approached. The newest member of their odd little band; the dark haired man with the permanent smirk that made Kivan nearly as suspicious as he was of the drow. The man was naked, drying his hair and shoulders with a cloth, and the coolness of the water did not hide the fact that the gods had gifted him generously. Unsurprisingly the drow stared with a lascivious grin on her face as he approached and casually wrapped the strip of linen around his waist.

"Alas," Viconia said when the man reached them. "I was enjoying the view."

A sly grin. "I've always been of the opinion that one should keep a little air of mystery," Eldoth said. "Though perhaps it is too late for that."

"In my house we always kept loincloths on the pleasure-slaves," Viconia stated, a little wistful-sounding. "Not necessary, considering their purpose, but the mystery was nice at times."

"Slaves," Kivan grumbled.

"It is a life I left behind long ago," she said with a shrug.

"But one you enjoyed."

"I would not deny that."

Eldoth did not seem the least bit off-put. He slipped down onto the moss beside the drow. "I, for one, would love to hear a fascinating tale or two of your culture. Perhaps over wine?"

"You have wine?"

"In addition to the brandy. I always like to be prepared for a journey."

Kivan shook his head and stood while the two chatted, side by side and hip to hip.

Fine with him. The two snakes deserved each other.

 

* * *

At the center of the clearing the campfire rolled and crackled, casting flickering light across the seven faces that huddled around. Ashura had her chainmail laid out across her lap, examining her kit, and Kivan kept his hands busy fletching arrows, using fresh feathers plucked from the wild turkey they had eaten for dinner. Garrick had his face pressed down in into a book, presumably some sort of journal he always seemed to be writing in these days, and Faldorn was curled up on her side, already asleep, her wolf laying against her back.

Tomorrow they would plan the assault on the old dwarven clanhold, and maybe even implement it. For now it just felt like any other night of summer camping, enjoying the fire and the food and company.

Coran and Xan sat on either side of Imoen, Xan with his nose in his spellbook and the wood elf watching the fire dance. _My elves_ , she thought to herself. She seemed to be adopting a lot of them lately.

"It appears I simply have no luck with the ladies anymore," Coran whispered, glancing at the patch of darkness where Viconia and Eldoth had nonchalantly disappeared a little while ago. For once Imoen couldn't hear any passionate cries, but then again she didn't have keen elven ears. Cries or no, it was easy enough to guess what they had slipped off for.

"It's cause we all know what you're about," Imoen said with a smirk. "You really need a new strategy. Pick _one_ 'lady' and make her feel special, instead of flitting to one after another like a dog rootin' around everywhere for bones."

"That's…quite a metaphor. I'm not sure your 'strategy' would have worked with the dark, exotic beauty though."

"Nope. I almost think she just jumped on the big Illuskan guy so quick 'cause she knew it would annoy you." Imoen chuckled. "Would be just like her. I think her main goal in life is getting a rise out'a folks."

"Drow are manipulative," Kivan growled nearby.

"Yup, but she's only like that in a playful, pranky way. She's not so bad."

Kivan just shook his head at that.

"I guess you could try the wild woman," Imoen suggested, tilting her head towards Faldorn. "In yer quest for 'luck.'"

Coran shook his head, a wistful smile on his face. "No. I have sharper senses than you think. It's pretty clear she's in mourning over a lover, and I won't interfere with that."

"Ah," Xan whispered. "She did have two male companions. One old and one young. One died fighting the wyverns and their tamers and the other fell to Tazok and his men." He gave Faldorn a ponderous look. "I wonder which one was her mate. She did not seem enraged or sad over either."

"No, but she's been doing a lot of howling, at night when she's a wolf," Coran pointed out. "And why does it have to be one of the men? Why not both?"

Imoen giggled. "We're such gossips."

"I know, and isn't it fun?" Coran whispered, turning. The firelight danced in his eyes.

Another giggle. Times like these she was a little tempted to take the rakish elf up on his standing offer; take his hand and walk out of the circle of light, maybe find a cozy bed of moss and see if he was just all talk. Knowing the fact that he'd just move on the next day and probably brag about the whole thing put a damper on the idea though. That and leaving Xan alone by the fire might hurt his feelings.

A wicked thought occurred to her. _'Why not both?'_ Now there was a big tangle of interesting ideas. Xan would never agree of course. He seemed so proper and prudish. Though maybe she did not know him all that well. He seemed so effete at times; delicately beautiful. And Coran often acted like he was up for anything. Maybe the two of them…

"You're blushing quite profusely," Coran noted with a smirk.

Imoen scrunched up her face, then shrugged. "Bah. Caught me I guess. Pondering how wild druids can get. Maybe we ought to get Garrick to compose a randy song on the subject."

"Now there's an idea." The girl and the two elves continued gossiping late into the night, mostly driven by Coran, but Xan contributed an idea here and there, much to Imoen's surprise (and delight.)

Tomorrow there would be planning, and a dangerous assault perhaps. Tonight they were simply friends huddled around a campfire and laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just another summer camping trip, complete with skinny-dipping, campfire gossip, people pairing up, and of course wyvern attacks.
> 
> Shar-Teel's backstory here is based a bit on stuff from the Baldur's Gate NPC Project mod and some things of my own invention (like Shar-Teel's 'real' name.) Also I like the idea of Sarevok, Tazok, Semaj, Tomoko and Angelo all going on lots of *evil* adventures together and knowing each other pretty well. They had to get to level 15 somehow, after all.


	40. Men are Pathetic

_ "It was all going so well until everyone died."  _ – Sharwyn of Neverwinter, _Ill Met in Undermountain_

* * *

"So ye're new meat, huh?" the voice on the other side of the wall asked. It was his fourth annoying attempt at conversation, by Shar-Teel's reckoning. He sounded old, and there was something in the accent that made her think 'dwarf.' The accent, and the fact that he seemed to use the words 'ye' and 'lass' far too much for her liking.

"I am no one's 'meat,'" she replied with a growl, feeling her way along the mortared stones of her cramped cell. It was the sort of place she had expected to wake up in when she was first taken prisoner: five feet by five at the most, with a little light filtering through a barred window on the door. There was some straw stacked in one corner and a pot in the other that filled the chamber with a rank odor.

The fine silk outfit Shar-Teel's captors had dressed her up in had been torn in the scuffle with Tazok, and they had taken it away before throwing her into the dungeon, leaving her in the chemise. The undergarment was already dusty and ripped in places; a few days down here and it would turn into proper prisoner's rags.

She didn't have a few days though. Tazok might make good on this threat at any time and send one of his pet mages to ensorcell her, and that would be that. She had to find a way out before then, while her mind was still her own.

"I'll be bettin' that's the attitude what got you in this stinking hole in the first place," the dwarven voice rambled on. "Trust me. Yer pride won't bring you nothing but a lotta' pain down here. Best to swallow it and do as yer told like the rest of us slaves."

"I am no one's slave."

"Just sayin' it won't open that door. Unless ye've snuck something in with ya to break it down."

She ignored the voice, and once she was done groping around the room she leaned back against the wall. Solid stone and a sturdy oak door. Nothing to do now but wait.

"Me name's Yeslick, by the way," the voice added.

"Good for you," Shar-Teel snarled. To her relief he fell silent after that.

Time passed in the damp darkness, silent beyond the hum of Shar-Teel's pulse in her ears. She had nearly dozed off when the sound of shuffling boots made her perk up. Someone was walking through the hallway and drawing close. In a moment there was a clicking sound from the next-door cell, followed by a low scrape. The voice on the other side of the wall gave a hearty: "Thank you very much."

In the darkness Shar-Teel grinned. "Well isn't that polite of you?" she asked, voice echoing off the stones. "Thanking our little nanny for shoveling whatever rat-shit they call food down here into your cell?"

"Stuff's not so bad," the dwarven voice muttered.

"Ha! Just sounds like you're tonging the ass of our little caretaker to me. 'Please sir, can I have some more.' Pathetic. Just like the whipped little slave you are."

"Pays to be polite," a second voice grumbled. It sounded like the man outside the cells. Their jailer.

_ Good. A bite. _

"Haha!" Shar-Teel cackled. "Polite? More like it makes you feel puffed up when the good little slaves lick your boots. Makes you feel like you aren't the guard who drew the shortest stick and has to babysit us dregs down here in the cells. Did you draw the duty or did you just get picked cause no one else likes seeing your ugly face?"

There was a little snort on the other side of her door. "Short straw," the man admitted. By his tone he agreed that it was a shit duty.

_ Now we're getting somewhere. _

With a click the narrow slot in Shar-Teel's door slid open and a wooden bowl was pressed halfway through. It looked like some sort of porridge; a bit better than the moldy bread she was expecting.

Still, now was not the time to be gracious. With all the strength she could muster Shar-Teel rammed her foot into the edge of the bowl and shoved it back through the slot. There was a satisfying yelp of pain on the other side.

"Ah! Bitch!"

"Jarred your fingers? Good!"

"Hope it was worth not eating," the guard growled.

"Oh, definitely. Now clean that mess up like a good little boy."

"I don't have to-"

"Oh, I'm sure your superiors expect it of you. Jailers have to keep a tidy dungeon right?"

"How 'bout I make you clean it?" The man was shouting now, and Shar-Teel's grin just deepened. Sounded like he was quite red in the face. Over spilled porridge and jammed fingers.

"You can't make me do anything," she taunted. "Bet you're under orders not to touch me."

"Bah!" the guard growled. "They said not to 'damage' you. Doesn't mean you can't spend the rest of your time here bound and gagged!"

Shar-Teel's heart raced with a giddy thrill when she heard a metallic scraping and click at the door. She had thought she'd have to wear the guard down over several visits, but it seemed he was riled up enough right here and now.

"Why they never broke you properly is beyond me," the guard snarled as the door was flung open. Bright light spilled into the cell and forced Shar-Teel to squint, the man a harsh silhouette before her. She picked up the details well enough though: a helmet decorated with short bull horns, studded leather armor in the common vest-and-skirt style, a dagger at his belt and a truncheon in his raised right hand.

Before he could swing the club Shar-Teel had pressed in close and grabbed the man's wrist, her other fist flying up and striking him square in the nose. The blow sent the guardsman reeling backwards and a foot hooked under his calf threw him off balance. Shar-Teel followed him to the floor, driving her knee into his groin and landing with all her weight.

They rolled for a moment as he struggled weakly, but soon she had the guard on his stomach. Gripping the horns on his helmet she slammed his face into the hard-packed floor a few times before yanking back sharply and putting all of her strength into a violent twist. There was a muted crack and the man's body started shuddering like crazy.

She held on steady until the violent convulsions slowed and became twitches, then she yanked his knife free and stabbed him in the back, just to be sure. There was no more shuddering after that. Standing up, Shar-Teel wiped her bloody knife on her ragged garment, chuckling to herself.

"Men are pathetic." Get their blood boiling with something to prove and they'll do all sorts of stupid shit.

"I suppose ye did sneak a weapon in," the voice from the other cell noted.

"Yeah. Good thing the fools never thought to gag me." She bent down and started unfastening the straps on the dead guard's armor.

"Could ye lend an old dwarf a hand and let me out then?"

Shar-Teel slid the studded vest up and off the corpse, sliding it over her head. "Why would I want some frail old fool slowing me down?" she snapped.

"I can swing a mace better than most. And with Clangeddin's blessing to boot."

"Good for you," Shar-Teel muttered as she tightened the straps of her new armored skirt. "But I need no man to fight my battles."

"Maybe not, but ye shouldn't turn away help where it's offered. And I owe these bastards. This place used ta be me home -the old Orothair clainhold- and-"

Slamming the key in place, Shar-Teel twisted the lock and opened the prisoner's door. "Spare me your fucking life story," she snarled.

At the sight of him she couldn't help but snicker. An old, hairy dwarf dressed in a loincloth and sandals, with a big pot belly, long golden hair and a bushy, unkempt beard. "Ha! A half-naked old dwarf. Some bloody help you'll be." She laughed some more as she placed the guard's helmet on her head and adjusted her new swordbelt.

The dwarf was nonplussed. "Ye might be surprised."

* * *

_ This is madness. _

The fort at the heart of the Cloakwood looked much the same today as the last time Xan had seen it. The same placid mote. The same walls of sharpened logs. Even the same lack of activity; just two guards at the gate and no sign of movement inside. On top of that it was even the same sort of clear summer day as before, with birdsong from the high trees and the chirp of frogs filling the air.

A familiar footpath led to the bridge, and Xan had to force himself forward, his stomach closed in on itself and his heart throbbing in his throat. _This is madness. Absolute madness!_ Was there not an old saying about such things? _'To repeat the same action while expecting a different outcome is insanity itself.'_

And here he was, covered by another _mass invisibility_ spell, walking in the same steps he had taken roughly four days ago; to the bridge and the fort beyond.

There were little differences of course. The warband's numbers had swelled. Nine of them now, and armed with quite a bit more magic. Xan feared that after the last failed assault the enemy would put out traps, but Imoen and Coran claimed they had thoroughly scouted for those earlier and found the fort relatively unprotected.

'This'll work' the smiling girl had said. 'No doubt about it.'

That was another difference: they had the beaming optimist with them now. From time to time she _almost_ managed to put Xan's nerves at ease.

As he crossed the moat Xan noticed another difference, this one less pleasant. Above the wooden gate two severed heads rested on spikes, mouths gaping and tongues drooping out, one with a big square jaw and a scar along the left cheek, the other partially burned. A thick cloud of flies churned overhead.

Xan forced himself to look down at the path before him, swallowing a deep breath as he neared the guards. They were different men than before, of course, though they were dressed and armed similarly. Another difference: they were unmoving and stared off at nothing, one of the men seated and slumped forward, the other leaning against the wall. He seemed to be held up by the two arrows that had gone through his chest and pierced the wood behind him.

Perhaps things were progressing slightly better than before. _Perhaps_.

Xan held his breath and scurried forward as silently as he could, past the dead sentries and on into the courtyard. There were no card players this time; just a few horses that shuffled behind the stable gates, tails lazily whipping at flies.

The door to the big building that adjoined the stables swung open by a few finger-widths as Xan neared it. With every fiber of his being he did _not_ want to even approach that doorway, where the ogre had pushed his way through the last time. But that was the plan, and it seemed he was doomed to follow it.

As he drew closer the door inched open a bit more, seeming to move on its own, and Xan slipped through, pressing his back to the wall as soon as he was inside. He found himself blinking frantically and hoping his eyes would quickly adjust to the gloom.

The bottom floor of the building was one large room; carpeted and occupied by soldiers. In the hearth a cookfire crackled beneath a cast iron stewpot, and a man in fine chainmail paced before the flames. His movements were exaggerated, as if animated by magic. Five paces across the boards, then he'd whirl and his heel could click loudly against the floor. Five more paces and another click.

Swivel, click. Swivel, click. Again and again at inhuman speed, his mornignstar clinking against his armored hip. Three other men watched him nervously, seated around a wooden table in the center of the room.

When the man finally paused for a moment Xan recognized him: the fox-faced mercenary who had danced away from Shar-Teel's blades in the courtyard four days ago. His face was less sly now, more pinched with worry.

"We should demand that those two witches…" the man began, but his voice trailed off when his eyes seemed to alight on Xan. The elf held his breath and stretched his fingers out. Had he been spotted? His hands still _seemed_ to be invisible before him.

The mercenary pointed, suspicion and anger growing on his face. "Who opened that door?"

There was a blur of red and yellow both behind the man and across his throat as Imoen materialized, her dagger flashing and unleashing a torrent of blood. As he clutched at his neck the dagger flicked in behind him, delivering a stab to his back that sent the mercenary tumbling forward.

At nearly the same time there was a flash of color and steel by the table, Ashura appearing just as she drove a sword down into the chest of one of the soldiers. The man next to him glanced around frantically and began to stand, but a slash of Ashura's lefthand sword caught his throat and sent him reeling back.

Xan aimed his invisible fingers at the third soldier, who had managed to rise and draw his blade, but before the Greycloak could bring a stunning spell to his lips the entire table upended. With the table and Ashura's weight against him the man was knocked off his feet and onto his back, pinned and struggling as Ashura brought her left sword in overhand and stabbed at his exposed face again and again.

Xan's eyes widened with shock. _It seems the girls have things well in hand._

There were sounds of commotion upstairs, but when Xan reached the bottom of the flight it had settled. Kivan was already at the top and walking down, his halberd out ahead of him and dripping. He had slung a new longbow over his shoulder, apparently picked up from a weapon rack upstairs. Coran followed, daggers in hand and a grin on his face.

"Hmm," Xan mused to himself. "I suppose that is how you conduct a proper ambush."

"Indeed," Kivan muttered.

* * *

The crackle of electric white grew and then burst with a fizzle and a pop, leaving pinpricks of light dancing before Shar-Teel's eyes and taking the magical shielding that had glowed around Hareishan with it.

"Ha! Dispelled ye!" Yeslick barked out as he tramped forward across the burnt carpet. Every step looked pained, and the old dwarf was half-dragging himself when he took the last stride, grey smoke coiling up from the holes in his leather shirt where the lightning bolt had struck. Still, he managed to grunt and swing his mace back.

Hareishan backed up a few steps, her hands thrusting forward as she attempted a desperate spell. " _Ishala vrex-_ gahk!" Invocation turned to a breathless gasp when the mace collided with her middle and bent her over, and with a mindless warcry Yeslick raised the weapon high and brought it down, pulping the back of Hareishan's head with a thunk.

By then Shar-Teel was on the last of the soldiers, her knee planted against the small of his back and her sword ramming down and through. "Guess you can pull your weight, dwarf," she admitted, watching Yeslick stumble back and brace himself against the edge of a table. The dwarf was breathing hard and in obvious pain, but that seemed to lift a bit when he placed a hand to his burnt shoulder and invoked his god.

There were three dead men strewn across the dining hall; guards Shar-Teel had dealt with while the dwarf confronted the Calishite witch. At the very edge of the chamber two other people cowered, an unarmed man and woman dressed in roughspun clothes, obviously slaves.

Once she had caught her breath Shar-Teel gestured with her stolen sword. "Might want to snatch up some armor," she suggested.

The dwarf looked a comical, mismatched mess: dressed in a studded shirt that was too puffy for him, a pair of stolen boots and no pants. Not to mention that after the skirmish there was a hole in the shirt and his tangled golden hair had puffed up and gone frizzy.

Yeslick eyed the corpses a moment and shook his head. "None near me size."

"You…you're Yeslick right?" one of the slaves asked. It was the man, gaunt as a stork and wrinkled as a prune, with long wisps of hair that seemed to barely be hanging onto a bald pate. "The smith?"

"Aye. They pulled me out o' the hole from time to time to work the iron, the way only an Orothair can. Then tossed me back in soon as I was done. Bloody ingrates."

"I've heard this place was-" the old slave began.

"Me old clanhome? Aye, that it was." Yeslick shrugged.

"You know the secrets of this place then?" the slave asked. "Passages? Escape routes?"

The old dwarf gave him a puzzled look, followed by another shrug. "Suppose I know every tunnel. Should hope I remember. It's been an age."

The slave glanced back through the doorway that Shar-Teel and Yeslick had entered the dining hall from. There seemed to be noise echoing down the halls, footsteps and agitated talk. "We might want to…hide," the slave ventured. "Now that the entire fortress probably wants to kill us."

"Oh. Suppose that would be a good idea." Yeslick stepped forward. "There's no paths to the surface 'til you get up a level at least, but I know of some passages the damn invaders may not have found." He started off for the opposite doorway, the slaves falling in right on his heels.

After a breath Shar-Teel followed as well, picking up a fallen chair and propping it against the first door they passed through. She was incredulous about following this doddering, senile hairball, but there seemed to be no better options at the moment. As long as he didn't start barking orders.

They marched down a passage that twisted sharply again and again, always fleeing the sound of the scuffling feet and clinking arms. The walls around them and the low ceiling were all solid stonework, braced by beams of oak, the floor hard-packed dirt and the passages lit by spherical lamps at regular intervals.

The tunnel widened into an empty room with a few tables and some spears leaning against the walls, which the pair of slaves took. From there Yeslick led them down another narrow passageway and then into a large, vaulted chamber stacked high with wooden crates.

Two men in leather armor stamped with the Black Talon had been lounging against a pile of goods, overseeing three burly slaves in loincloths as they hauled boxes. Both men scowled, and one stepped forward with his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"What's a dwarf doing-" he began before Shar-Teel cut him off with a stab to the chest. The second man caught a knee to the groin and a dagger in the kidney before he could advance or draw his blade.

As she finished the soldier off and looked up her eyes fixed on a third guard advancing through a doorway, a startled look on his boyish face. "What's going on?" Soon as the stupid question had left his lips his eyes bulged with realization, and his hands shot up, open and surrendering. "I give up. I swear! Mercy! Please."

Before Shar-Teel could advance, a spiked mace swung in, smacking the back of the guard's head and sending clumps of brown hair flying. He dropped like a sack of stones and the slave who wielded the mace stepped closer, finishing the guard with a few more swings before looking up and giving Shar-Teel an ugly grin. "Been wanting to do that for ages," he said. "That one especially. He never shut up."

Shar-Teel let out half a chuckle and walked further into the storage room. It seemed the spiked mace had come from one of the boxes, and the other two slaves were arming themselves now as well.

"Don't suppose you're here to free us?" the man who had killed the guard asked.

"Not really," Shar-Teel said with a shrug. She peaked into another open crate. Fine steel swords, stacked as high as you please. Another was filled with arrowheads, and another with raw chainlinks meant for armor. "I just want to get out of here." She grinned at the weapons. "Though I suppose a good old fashioned slave revolt would make a fine distraction for the escape."

* * *

_ Keep moving.  _ That's one of the first rules of war, when you have inferior numbers. Nine soldiers -half of them invisible and most of them capable of using magic- wasn't bad, but Ashura kept moving nonetheless. Through the winding tunnels of the mine she went, swords out and ready as the torches flashed by.

From time to time Imoen would slip out of the shadows, just briefly shaking her head before disappearing again, her unspoken way of saying _'Nothing to report_.' She had taken the magical boots off the man she had killed in the barracks and was taking full advantage of them, zipping through the tunnels ahead fast as most people could run, yet silent as a ghost.

Nothing yet. Besides the constant clink of picks working at the stone all was quiet, and they had yet to meet another guard.

The miners stopped their work to watch the party as they passed, a little curiosity in their aged, weary eyes. Gaunt, half-starved faces, mostly men but a woman here and there, clad in loincloths, sandals and chest-wraps. Their skin was stained with dark dust and smeared with sweat.

The slaves taken from the caravans, branded and broken. _That could have been my fate._

Though no, somehow Ashura knew that it never would have been. Somehow she just knew that for the rest of her life –short though it may be- she would fight or she would die.

A sleepy-looking man in leather armor stepped out from a little alcove up ahead. He had shaggy blonde hair and an Illuskan look to him. It seemed most of the bandits they fought were northerners, living up to their reputation as raiders, slavers and pirates. The guard had a sheepish smile on his face, and his hand was nowhere near his sword. "Hey. Are you guys new-"

His words were interrupted by a stab to the chest, followed closely by a slash across the neck. The smile vanished with a " _Gurk_!" and turned to shock and fury before the blood and vigor drained away.

Ashura kept moving, boots stomping the gravel. A few steps further and a face peaked out from behind an outcropping, dirty, sweat-streaked and aged like the rest of the miners. His eyes went wide at the sight of the guard's dead body and Ashura's blood-drenched swords.

"It's alright," Garrick said in a stage whisper. "We're here to-"

"M-murderers!" the slave stammered. "Invaders!" He whirled around, dropping the pickaxe from his hand and waving his arms frantically in the air. "Guards! Guards!"

Ashura leaned in and rushed forward but one of Viconia's throwing rings spun through the darkness ahead of her, biting deep into the man's back and knocking him off balance. His knees hit the gravel and he wobbled a moment before toppling fully.

"That's a little excessive," Coran muttered from somewhere in the darkness. "He's a slave…"

Viconia ignored him and silently padded towards the fallen man, her black cloak swishing and her silhouette nearly invisible in the gloom. "A slave who would turn us over to his masters." She planted a foot and yanked her chakram out, sending a shudder through the prone man.

"We could have…stunned him or something."

"And wasted a spell? When we may face real opposition soon? _Waela_!" Viconia shook her head, leaning down to use the sharpened edge of her throwing ring to slit the man's throat. "There. What needed to be done is done. Let us move on."

Ashura was already walking around the corpse. "Yeah. Let's."

A few more strides, then Ashura stopped short when she caught sight of another slave. His back was pressed against the stone and his hands tightly gripped a pickaxe. He was as scrawny and filthy as the man who had tried to call the guards, though the look he gave her was not one of fear. More of a cautious glare.

Ashura tried to think of something to say, but the miner spoke up first. "I won't miss Faber over there," he stated grimly, head nodding towards the dead slave. "Was always lickin' the boots of the damn taskmasters. And I won't go shouting for them either. Hope you won't kill me just for being here."

"We won't," Ashura said. She caught a glimpse of other slaves in the shadows behind him, faces half-hidden behind rocks and carts and beams; nervous and ready to flee.

The slave looked down at his pick. "When I swing this thing I imagine every stone is one of the taskmaster's skulls. I suppose it's too much to hope that you're here to free us all." A brief silence. "Well, hope you at least kill as many of the bastards as you can."

"We will."

"Good." Ashura had started to walk by when the man spoke again. "There's a way to destroy this whole wretched place you know. If you're inclined."

She stopped. "Oh?"

"There's an underground river that runs by these tunnels. They sealed it up with a big device, but the master of the mines has the key that locked it. They joke sometimes, about drowning us all when the iron's tapped out."

"The master's key? We'll keep that in mind."

"More than that," Kivan growled from the shadows. "We _will_ free you all if we can, and destroy this place. You have my word."

"Thanks. Hope to see the sunlight again. Barring that I hope you at least drown this place, and Davaeorn along with it."

Ashura nodded, and they tromped on, the slaves eyeing them cautiously as they passed. She was here for answers, more than anything, and burying this place prematurely might bury those answers as well. An option to keep in mind though.

When they entered a wider area crisscrossed with mining tracks Imoen appeared again and held up a cautioning hand. She jabbed a thumb towards one of the half-dozen tunnels that wormed out from the chamber. "That way leads deeper," she whispered, "down some stairs. And the tunnels get straighter. Looks like a proper dwarven complex. Or…how I guess one would look. Never seen a dwarven clanhold before." A nervous laugh.

Ashura nodded.

"But there are lots'a soldiers down there. I counted urm…ten. And the funniest thing 'bout 'em. They're all running around like there's a fire or something. I think there's something going on deeper down."

"Good luck for us then," Ashura said with a shrug. "Explains why there's hardly anyone up here." She pointed with her righthand sword, a few drops of blood still dripping from it. "Alright. Let's press on."

As one they marched down the winding tunnel, the light growing brighter. The few, flickering torches that had lit the honeycomb caves were soon replaced by evenly-spaced globe-lanterns along the walls. Angry shouts echoed up from the depths, and with a deep intake of breath Ashura plunged down the final steps and into a wide square room.

Lots of men and a few women in scaled armor or reinforced leathers were lined up across the chamber, standing by some crude carts full of boxes and other assorted mining equipment. They were all facing the wrong direction, backs to the intruders and their swords and poleaxes aimed at a nearby tunnel. A man with bushy brown beard and a halfhelm seemed to be issuing orders as he waved his sword about.

"Krisk!" he shouted. "Grab three men and run them up to the mines! We can't let word spread to the slaves…" His words caught in his throat and his eyes grew wide as he gestured towards the stairs and caught sight of the advancing party. "Who the fuck are-"

His question was cut off by the hiss of a burning arrow from Kivan's bow, which caught him squarely in the face, his beard bursting into flames. And with that all hell broke loose.

* * *

Breathless, aching from several fresh bruises and covered in blood, Shar-Teel swung her shoulders through the narrow doorway and watched the stone slide into place behind her. She had always heard that dwarves love their seamless secret passages, and Yeslick was proving it so.

"This be a good spot to cool our heels for a while," the old dwarf announced after they had walked throughdown a few dark passageways, lifting his lantern to illuminate his face, along with those of the slaves they had picked up. "A back-passage they never scouted all the way out, looks like."

Shar-Teel glanced around and nodded. The walls here were a bit slimier than the inhabited chambers, and there was a musty smell in the air. "Shame we couldn't fight our way to the surface," she muttered. They had found a good chokepoint, and between her blade, Yeslick's mace and the long pikes the slaves had picked up they had killed perhaps eight hobgoblins and half as many human guards before backing to the secret passage. "A bloody stalemate," she muttered.

"There are a few options," Rill, the male slave they had picked up in the dining hall, said. "There's a shaft that runs to the very top of the mine, with a rope-and-pulley system. If we got to it we could take it all the way to the surface. Though the mechanism requires a key. Far as I know only the master of the mines and a few of his lieutenants have those."

Shar-Teel grunted. "Well, if I stumble onto this 'master' I'll make sure to run him through and take the key. Sounds like a longshot though."

Rill shook his head. "A very long one. Davaeorn is a _powerful_ mage."

"Bah."

Yeslick had leaned back against a stone wall, looking as relaxed as a halfling in a comfy chair. He had geared up quite a bit in the storage room, dressed now in relatively well-fitting chainmail along with mismatched leathers and a horned iron helmet. He had even snatched up some leather thongs from one of the crates, and was using them to bind up locks of his bushy beard. "Well, we're safe for the moment, and freer than we were before."

"Free to starve in a musty hole," Shar-Teel muttered.

"Maybe not," Yeslick said, beginning to tie a second fork in his beard. "If I'm not mistaken this tunnel goes right past the spot where they've set up the kitchens. Probably ought to lay low for a little while before we go raiding the larder though." He stroked his beard a bit, pleased to be bringing order to the chaos that hung from his chin, and started to work on the third fork.

* * *

Well, they had sure kicked a bloody hornet's nest! No time to lament about it now though.

No sooner had the line of soldiers broken than reinforcements started pouring in from both side-tunnels; disciplined and well-armed hobgoblins from one and furious looking Black Talons from the other. Ashura's group had quickly lost any advantage of surprise or narrow spaces, and it became a confused, chaotic melee in the open chamber.

Warned by a whistling sound, Ashura ducked under a wide and awkward swing of Kivan's halberd. As she dodged around she bumped into someone, nearly ramming an elbow into his face before she realized it was Garrick. They fumbled around till they were back to back, turning with the momentum of the battle and slashing wildly at the soldiers who surrounded them.

Arrows were useless in the free-for-all, and she caught glimpses of Coran and Imoen ducking and scrambling away from lashing swords.

Spells were still useful though. A cloud of darkness had quickly welled up at one of the doorways, and there were panicked shouts and pained screams coming from within. A moment after the cloud appeared the battle turned in their favor even more when a ripple rolled through and nearly half the hobs and humans were locked into place, turning the chamber into a garden of life-like statues.

A good thing Xan had saved his stunning spells for this.

Imoen used one of the frozen hobgoblins for cover, dancing around him like a pillar to dodge one chop from a soldier's axe, then another from the other side. A feint, and then she managed to spin around the hob and plant her dagger in the axeman's side.

No sooner had Ashura seen the man go down than three more Black Talon soldiers blocked her sight, shoulder to shoulder and pushing towards her. She parried one sword-thrust and shifted in with an underhanded lunge, trying to both stab the rightmost man and twist away from the others' blades. The stab bit through hardened leather and flesh with a wet ripping sound, but at the same time something heavy struck her in the side and threw her off balance.

Two lurching steps, then another blow sent a jolt through her side and she fell against a nearby minding cart, upending it. There was furious thrashing and she felt a heavy weight. The man who was stuck on her sword had fallen with her, and he was _very_ angry.

Hands clawed for her face and neck, and she had to drop her swords to grip the man's wrists, twisting her head to avoid gouging fingers poking for her eyes. They snarled and struggling, grappling against the bed of the cart. Even with a sword through his guts the man was annoyingly strong, and she found herself struggling for leverage, or at least an angle where she could ram him with a knee.

Before Ashura could come up with anything the world upended around her and she was flung, rolling and dizzy across the dirt. Someone must have pushed the cart fully over and flung them out. The impaled man slid away from her fingers and she found herself crawling on the ground.

Pressing a hand against the earth, she tried to push to her feet and bumped into a pair of knees. Boots came into view: tight, utilitarian leather with studs running through. The same sort of boots she had seen on dozens of Chill hobgoblins before.

She scrambled backwards on her hands, and the gleaming blade of an axe fell right in front of her face and sank into the dirt.

No weapons, but she managed to jump to her feet and grip the axe-handle before the hob could lift it all the way up for another swing. Her right hand reached up farther and found the goblin's helmet, bending him down with a yank as she brought her knee up and slammed it into his jaw.

The blow jarred the hob enough for him to lose his grip on the axe, and Ashura wasted no time catching it fully and bringing it around in a swing. The edge sunk deep between neck and shoulder and the hobgoblin's legs crumbled beneath him. A kick to dislodge the axe and Ashura was turning and frantically casting her eyes about the room, heaving in breaths.

No movement. No one was left to attack her. Just a forest of lifelike statues; three hobgoblins and four leather-clad guards locked in place by Xan's paralyzing spell. A few were trembling hard, struggling to break free.

The grizzly chores were never done. Ashura gripped the axe with both hands, took a step forward, and swung at the nearest guard.

Once it seemed that all the guards were dead Ashura spared her companions a glance, managing a grim smile. "We're still alive?"

Xan was huffing hard, pulling his moonblade from one of the last hobgoblins. "It would…appear so," he breathed, voice toneless as usual. The last of the invisibility spells were gone and the leathers that wrapped Kivan's chest were torn and ripped open in two spots. Garrick stepped forward and attended to the shallow wounds with an open palm and the low hum of a mending song.

Everyone was splattered at least a bit with blood, except for Eldoth, who had somehow stayed pristine and smug in a corner of the room, clean cutlass in hand. Ashura shot him a glare and then turned her head from him to Imoen and back. "Make her invisible," she ordered.

"Of course," Eldoth nodded, sauntering forward and weaving an empty hand in Imoen's direction as he sang out the words. " _Umbriel vistias quiel_."

Good that he had that spell handy. It made scouting easier. _Wonder if it's all he's good for._

The instant Imoen started to shimmer she zipped away, the slabs in the wall distorted where she passed. Fast as she moved with the new magic boots, Imoen still managed to make no sound. Kivan and Coran slipped down the other tunnel, their cloaks taking on the dun color of the walls and wrapped tight around their bodies.

Moments passed in tense silence, and eventually the elves returned, backs to the wall and crouching. Coran shook his head. "Lots of storage back there. There's boxes packed with weapons, armor and all manner of iron tools."

Xan sighed. "Iron. Of course. At least we grow a little closer to the heart of this convoluted conspiracy."

"Funny thing though," Coran added. "The passage seems to dead-end. And there were quite a few bodies." He swept his hand across the floor. "Just like these sods."

Xan's brows pressed together. "Odd. Surely it's not…"

"Shar-Teel," Kivan muttered.

"She's somewhere in here killing half the Black Talons by herself?" Xan asked incredulously. Then he let out a breath. "I suppose I should not be surprised."

"This passage goes pretty deep," Imoen piped up from the empty air. "Shall we move up?"

And that was what they did, advancing little by little with Imoen's unseen presence guiding them forward. The tunnels seemed to gradually slope down, taking sharp turns. Eventually they passed through a long dining hall, the chairs and tables overturned and the finely patterned carpet strewn with bodies; more guards along with a woman in fine silk, her skull caved in.

There was an empty kitchen, recently vacated with a cookfire burnt down to embers and half-chopped onions on the cutting board. More tunnels stretched beyond, and eventually they passed through what appeared to be a hall lined with prison cells.

A man lay on the floor, flat on his stomach but his face bent unnaturally towards the ceiling, dressed in nothing but a loincloth. As she glanced at his vacant eyes and passed the corpse Ashura wondered if they would simply be following the trail of Shar-Teel's dead all the way to the bottom of the clanhold. _Hopefully._

Faint sounds were beginning to echo from the walls; the rhythmic ring of hammers on steel, and soon Ashura thought she could make out the low mutter of voices. From the sound it seemed like there was some sort of smithy ahead, though it was hard to judge if it was truly closeby.

They stopped once again at the top of a long stone stairway and awaited their invisible scout. The cycle repeated: the silent, nerve-wracking wait as indeterminable time passing and Ashura watched the flame in a globe-lantern subtly shift and listened the sound of her own pulse. If something went wrong how would they even know? How long should they wait?

But once again Imoen's voice chirped up from the shadows, low but sing-song as ever. "Seems clear. There's a big forge down the righthand hall though. Hot as Gehenna, with some slaves working the molten iron and a few guards. And we might need ta be extra cautious from here. Lots of closed doors lining the other halls. Might be barracks."

Ashura nodded, and with a deep breath she led her little army down the stairs, into another open chamber with a vaulted ceiling. It was plain as could be, with the same dirt floor as everywhere else and a few empty, roughewn tables and chairs lining the opposite side.

Plain as could be, until the last of the group reached the bottom step and a mirage-like shimmer ran along the entire far wall. Empty tables winked out of existence and reappeared overturned, lines of humans and hobgoblins kneeling behind the makeshift cover with bows in hand and arrows knocked.

Most of Ashura's companions began to back up, knocking arrows of their own, Kivan and Viconia the farthest up the stairs.

Between two tables a man stood in the open, lit brightly by what must have been several protective spells emanating from his bulky black robes. He was tall and imposing, with a square and firmly set jaw and thin grey hair that came to a widow's peak. His narrow eyes glittered in the lamplight, and with a thick Luskan accent he sneered: "You've come far enough into my mines, I think."

He gestured and there was a quick metallic snapping sound behind them. Ashura glanced back in time to watch a complex series of steel circles slide into place, suddenly blocking Kivan and Viconia from view and locking with a click that echoed through the cavern. She whirled back to face the Luskan mage.

Once again Ashura got the feeling she had just kicked a hornet's nest. And once again the hornets came buzzing out, this time in the form of arrows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Davaeorn takes a more hands-on approach than just waiting in his layer while his complex gets ravaged, and Shar-Teel shows us that sometimes there is a method to her madness/misandry. The version of Shar-Teel in this story is meant to be less of a cartoon-misandrist and more someone who just really loves pushing the buttons of her (ideally male), opponents.
> 
> Also it occurs to me that there are a couple of parallels between what happens in this chapter and in Sunnysoul's (wonderful!) Baldur's Gate story Til Love Do Us Part. I'm not sure how much of it is coincidence or influence (what happens to Faber is similar but does happen under very different circumstances), but I just wanted to acknowledge that. Not trying to rip you off Sunnysoul, honest!


	41. Hornet's Nest

_ "My advice on attacking a prepared mage in his own home? Don't do it."  _ –Ren O' The Blade, _A Hero's Handbook_

* * *

_ Keep moving.  _ Always moving. That's what every instinct told Ashura.

More importantly it's what the arrow-sensing boots were telling her, as she shifted her hips and felt something glance off her chainmail. Her head tilted at the same instant and a rush of wind passed by; the feathers tickling her cheek.

Something slammed into her side, too fast to avoid. Felt like a punch instead of a stab though. Nothing like enchanted armor.

Dodging and weaving past the arrows, she pushed forward. If she could jump one of the barriers; plant a sword in one of the soldiers…

Something white-hot flashed into existence at the tip of the Luskan mage's fingers. A pinprick of expanding light, wisps of crackling flame appearing at the edges. A word snarled out in draconic and a flick of his wrist sent the sphere flying, and Ashura realized that this was something she could not dodge.

She rushed forward anyway; quick, desperate steps. The crackling sphere flew by, her skin instantly parched on the side it passed. A furnace-roar filled her ears, her vision nothing but white light, and the searing wind of the explosion lifted her off her feet and threw her flat against the dirt. Wind and heat and light and scalding skin.

It passed in an instant and Ashura lurched to her feet. There was a relentless crackling everywhere, and intense heat at her arms.

A glance and she saw that her cloak was on fire. With a snarl of disgust she tore it from her shoulder and let it flutter, smoking, to the floor. There was a foul smell of burning flesh in her nostrils, but she couldn't worry about that.

Right now she had a mage to kill.

A glare across the room, focused on the grey-haired bastard and nothing else, and then she was charging, burns and flames and fury and all. The hobgoblins nearby knocked fresh arrows, but their hands began to tremble before they could shoot, the fear that rolled off Ashura striking them in palpable waves.

The Master of the Mines just narrowed his eyes and aimed a finger, barking out a few quick words as Ashura closed. Words that were meaningless to her. His voice also echoed in her head, but it sounded like gibberish.

Words of command, she would realize later, but it was as pointless as trying to lecture a wildfire. To shout orders at a hurricane.

The tip of her sword struck the mage's chest with a flash of light that rippled outward, her hand jarred away by a barrier. She struck again, a mighty swing, and he took a stumbling step back, frustration creeping into his controlled features.

"You!" he snarled at her through a growing scowl. "The sister!"

Another word and a flutter of his fingers launched a storm of red, glowing points of light. Ashura's body twisted to one side or the other as each projectile struck, sizzling and sending up wisps of smoke.

They did not slow her, and she unleashed a flurry of blows against the barrier, sparks and waves of energy flying. The mage backed up three more steps, his hands falling to his sides as he shook his head and growled out a few more words.

" _Siltir varak – keev!_ " With a flicker and rush of wind he simply vanished, shimmering barriers and all.

Ashura's swords slashed out at empty air, searching and finding nothing. She whirled away, looking for another target. No pain yet, but those spells must have taken their toll.

There was a hobgoblin nearby, mindlessly clutching his longbow and holding it out like he was going to block something with the wood. Two steps closer and Ashura rammed her swords into the leg of an upturned table.

Both of her hands flashed forward and sent the power that dwelled within them out, gripping at the goblin's lifeforce and pulling it to her. His dazed look turned to horror and agony as his chest was yanked forward, liquid draining from his thinning face. In an instant he was slack, sickly; barely alive. With renewed vigor Ashura yanked her swords free and finished him.

She turned, lashing out at cowering foe after foe, though now she was panting hard. Sweating, breathless and burnt; the fury dimming. All around her were immobilized archers; cowering in terror, chanting nonsense, or staring blankly at the wall, likely caught up in one of Xan's spells if they hadn't succumbed to her aura.

Once Ashura had kicked a fleeing Black Talon off his feet and run him through the back, she spared a glance over at the other side of the room. The floor was blackened in a great, uneven circle, dark trails of smoke curling to the ceiling here and there from smoldering spots of red.

Xan stood in what must have been the center of the blast, oddly untouched. Imoen was closer by, also clear of soot or burns, her dagger out and dripping where she had waded into the melee. She gave Ashura a cautious look.

Others were not so lucky. There were forms with blacked clothes slumped against the far wall, Faldorn kneeling beside one of them, hands aglow and head bowed in concentration. Ashura's heart sank at the sight of Garrick, clutching weakly at the shaft of an arrow in his side. His face was raw and red, lips all blisters and eyes clenched tight with pain.

She bolted as fast as she could to his side, snatching up the healing potion that she kept on her belt as she went. The cork came out with her teeth as her fingers wrapped around the shaft of the arrow, fletching still smoldering. "Stay with me, okay?"

"Always," Garrick managed with a grimace. A little blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth when he spoke.

_ Shit! Not good. Not good. _ She pressed the end of the bottle to his lips. "Drink this fast. Swallow, no matter what. Okay?"

He nodded and she tilted the vial. A few gulps and then she yanked on the arrow as hard as she could. It came out with a gush and a shudder ran through Garrick, but he gulped another mouthful of the potion. And another.

_ Don't pass out. Please don't pass out. _

The bottle was tilted all the way now, rapidly emptying, and her other hand held his chin up. A few more contractions of his throat and the potion was gone, the blisters starting to shrink and disappear from his lips. She let go of him and he slumped a bit, wheezing breaths escaping his mouth and his hand clutching his side.

"Is it closed?" Ashura asked. "The wound."

"Think…think so."

She nodded with relief. No shape for fighting, but at least he didn't seem to be choking on blood. They needed to regroup, take stock of their healing potions and figure out the next step.

Once again Ashura's heart lurched, this time at the sounds of boots stomping against the packed earth. Lots of them. Both swords in hand she stepped in front of Garrick and readied herself. Another hornet's nest. More hornets.

She walked towards the hallway where the footsteps echoed. No reason to keep the bastards waiting.

* * *

On instinct Kivan hopped backwards as the circular seal rolled into place, steel clicking with a ring of finality. He lunged forward in the next instant, growling and ramming the butt of his halberd against the metal door. The result was nothing but a jolt through his arms. It was solid and sturdy, and though there was a keyhole in the center he knew nothing of such mechanisms.

Another frustrated growl and Kivan whirled, planting his feet in a fighting stance and pointing the halberd out like a spear. The sharp metal tip was aimed at the drow. Her face was half-hidden by her hood, but her lips were set in a hard line. She held two of her chakrams out and ready, just a flick away from throwing the first.

There was a long silence, and they shared a glare. Eventually Viconia spoke, her voice low and measured. "I suppose this is the point where we attempt to kill each other?"

"You were readying those blades. To throw at me."

"I was preparing to defend myself, _dos vrukaphol_! You've made no secret of your hate for me. And my kind. From when first we met, if you need reminding. You called me a ' _Savalsen_ _esser_ ,' and you would have let the Flaming Fists hang me for nothing!"

"I remember." A pause. "Xanisteirial said you had much to prove. And you've yet to prove anything to me."

"Bah!"

"You _are_ a _savalir_. A murderer."

She tossed her head back, the hood sliding away and long white hair spilling out. Violet eyes gleamed in the dark. " _Phlysh zhaunil_! Of course I am a murderer."

He tensed and adjusted the halberd. She could be quick. No doubt she would dodge the initial stab. He would have to feint first.

"You are a murderer as well. You are only _here_ because you seek a murder. I have not been privy to the details but I have certainly picked up that you want Tazok's head."

"That is not-"

"That you have not murdered him _yet_ makes you more innocent than I?" She shook her head. "I saw you at Tazok's camp, when we razed the place. So eager to let your arrows loose, catching unsuspecting sentries in the chest. The neck. The back. You were a glutton for the killing, happy to rid the world of them as you struck from the dark. It was a magnificent sight. And if it was not murder, well, then my skin is pale as quartz."

His weapon did not waver. "Whatever _I_ am, it does not change the fact that I cannot trust you."

"I do not ask for your trust. Only that we be _abban_."

"I do not speak your tongue," Kivan growled.

She cocked her head, thinking. When she spoke she fumbled a bit with the Chondathan, as usual. "It means one who is a neutral acquaintance. One who is not yet an enemy."

"Not yet?"

"We need not ever be." She glanced around at the stairway. "Can we at least put aside our enmity to seek a way back to our companions?"

Another pause and a mutual glare, then Kivan raised the halberd slightly and began to walk up the stairs, passing the drow. He took two steps beyond her before he spun around and gave her another suspicious look, pointed glances at the rings that still hung in her hands. "I will not turn my back on you."

She nodded; almost smiled. "Wise. Trust is for the foolish. And the dead." Uneasily they began to climb the steps side by side.

"And you really wish to seek the girl out?" Kivan asked. "Risk yourself to help her, and the other members of our band?"

"Of course," Viconia instantly replied.

"Why?"

"A simple matter. She is the only being who has shown me kindness in…decades. Perhaps nearly a century." A pause. "It is not sentiment, if that is what you think. It is simply a practical matter to cling to such things when one finds them. Better than being alone in a cold, hostile world."

Kivan suspected there was more to it than that, but he remained silent. Silent and practical. He had no trust for the drow, but perhaps walking through the dark beside her would be safer than walking alone.

* * *

The unused passageways were damp and slick, the echo of dripping water constant and the old dwarven stonework deformed by a century of erosion. Sputtering lamplight barely lit the gnarled face of the wall as the five human slaves shuffled by behind their dwarven guide.

"Do you actually know where we're going?" Shar-Teel asked through clenched teeth.

"Suppose I do," Yeslick said in a tone that was not encouraging. "This place be a bit different than it was in me youth of course." A small laugh. "Ah. The back-passages were perfect for getting a little peace when you needed it. Or hiding when we were playing trollbait."

"But where _are_ we going?" Shar-Teel snapped.

"End of the passage. Forge by my reckoning. And you could scowl a bit less, Loovah. You're going to wear down your pretty teeth that way."

"I am _not_ Loovah, whoever the hells that is," Shar-Teel growled.

The dwarf halted and gave her a long look, his tired eyes appraising her. "Hm. I suppose ye aren't. You remind me of her though. Me little niece Loovah. Had a bit of a hot forge on her shoulders, as they say. She's somewhere down here." He swept the tunnel with sad, unfocused eyes. "Down here with all of them. Lost in the flood long ago." He let out a sigh.

Shar-Teel rubbed the bridge of her nose. _Oh, abyss take me now!_

"You see, this clanhold used to be a fine, dry place. Bustling with life and industry, we-"

"I've told you ten times already!" Shar-Teel shouted, her voice echoing off the wet stone. "I don't give a shit about your life's story!"

The dwarf shrugged. "Suit yourself. Just reckon that knowing the story of this place…" His voice trailed off as his eyes caught something, and Shar-Teel's hand snapped to the hilt of her sword, seeing it as well.

Movement in the damp dark.

The slaves had also noticed, and were huddled against one of the walls together, their pikes and maces held out in clumsy hands. All was silent, save the scraping of feet across the stone floor. Then the female slave pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle a scream, and one of the others whimpered.

Out of the shadows four figures shambled, approaching two by two: short, stocky and hunched forward, clawed knuckles dragging along the floor. They were bloated like the drowned dead, their gleaming skin an ugly shade of grey; clammy and marred here and there with huge spots where the skin was bruised black. Naked and hairless, any clue as to their former sex lost under rolls of knobby flesh, the creatures hissed as they approached. Their lips peeled away to display sharp teeth and gums caked with black beneath eyes that were empty of anything save hunger.

_ Undead, and some of the nastier kind _ , Shar-Teel guessed. Dwarves by the look of them, probably drowned when the clanhold flooded. Her sword sang in the air before her, but the sound had no effect on the advancing ghouls. "So which one of you is Loovah?" she asked.

The answer was just more hissing, and Yeslick snarled as well.

"Don't ye mock the dead, wench," he growled at Shar-Teel, stepping forward to face the ghouls. "These abominations are insult enough to their memory!" He held an open palm up, righteous indignation growing in his voice. "An insult to Clangeddin and his fine works. _And in his name I banish ye!_ "

Shar-Teel found herself squinting and turning her head as brightness bloomed from the old dwarf's hand, illuminating the entire hallway for a moment. The blinding effect was even stronger for the undead. They screeched -a sound like nails on slate- whirled on their heels with arms across their faces, and fled from the light.

As the burst of white faded Yeslick whipped his mace from his belt, advancing down the hall. "With me!" he shouted. "Let's crush these blasphemous things!" His little legs started pumping, and with a shrug Shar-Teel followed. "Shame I don't have me holy symbol," Yeslick huffed as they went. "Might've turned the things to dust. Put the dead true to rest."

For fat, waddling little things the dwarven ghouls were fast when they needed to be, pushing against the floor with their deformed arms like apes. Shar-Teel and Yeslick were closing the distance when they reached a dead end, and one of the ghouls slammed face-first into the rock. There was a stony scrape and part of the wall slid away, suddenly flooding the passage with bright light that had Shar-Teel blinking and covering her eyes.

Bright light and intense heat, the yellow of the glowlamps mixed with the hellish red of molten iron, which sat in pools and flowed along channels in the floor of the chamber. _The forge_ , Shar-Teel guessed. The senile fool _had_ actually been leading them somewhere.

The ghouls kept fleeing, one dipping a foot in a stream of glowing iron before pulling it out with a hiss and a terrible smell. Men in leather armor fled before them, and Shar-Teel picked up the pace as she ducked through the opening and into the forge-chamber.

_ What a perfect bloody entrance! _ Her sword flashed before her, first slicing through the knee of a ghoul and sending it plunging into a pool of smoldering slag before she rammed the blade into the back of the man who had been fleeing from the creature.

Chaos and slaughter ensued, and in moments Shar-Teel was panting hard and standing close to four men in loincloths who were cowering against a wall, two of them holding hammers out to ward her back.

"Don't worry," Shar-Teel growled at them, a wicked edge to her voice. "Fucked up as it is, seems we're here to rescue you!" Her eyes swept the room: Yeslick bashing the last of the undead to a pulp with his mace while the five armed slaves stood over the bodies of the guards, pikes and maces trembling in their hands.

She couldn't help but laugh.

* * *

There was no end to the bastards, but at least the narrow hallway forced them to come a few at a time. It was a familiar situation for Ashura: one quick, ferocious duel after another, each fresh hobgoblin that pressed her forcing a few stuttering steps backwards.

Eldoth stood at her shoulder, hacking away with his cutlass and finally proving that his muscles weren't simply for show. The Illuskan fought dirty too, his free hand constantly launching flickering patterns of magic that had the Chill hobs swooning or staring absently at nothing, and his body a wavering blur due to some defensive spell.

"Shura!" The harsh whisper of Imoen's voice in her ear. "Keep backing! Take 'em to the next room!"

"Uh," Ashura muttered, catching a hobgoblin axe on her right sword as the left pierced his gut. "Narrow…better…"

"Do it! There's a surprise in the next room!"

"Huh," was all she could manage to grunt as a female hob pressed her. She gave the creature more ground, which wasn't difficult since the goblin was wielding a spear and striking with quick, snake-like jabs.

A surprise sounded good. So long as it wasn't that mage showing up again and ending everything with another fireball in close quarters.

Seven steps back and they passed under a doorway, intense heat buffeting Ashura's back and a smell in the air that vaguely reminded her of the Candlekeep smithy. As they withdrew into the room and the pair of hobs followed, a man in a loincloth and a woman in a roughspun green dress stepped up beside the doorway, both wielding pikes and stabbing fiercely.

There was room now for Imoen, Coran, and Garrick to use their bows. Between that and the pike-wielding slaves they cut down the hobgoblins as fast as they could charge in; two, four, six, eight. After that there was a scuffling noise in the hall and the enemy receded, probably to regroup.

With an exhausted wave of his hand and a few muttered words Xan conjured up a wall of bricks in the doorframe. "That's an illusion," he whispered to no one in particular, "but hopefully it will at least confuse them."

For now they could catch their breath at least, and Ashura spared the foundry and its occupants a glance. Nine people dressed in the garb of the Cloakwood slaves held weapons, and they seemed to be led by a dwarf who was more beard than body. There was a woman in leather armor as well, with a toothy grin on her blood-and-dirt-caked face. She had walked over to Xan and given him a firm clap on the arm that nearly knocked the spindly elf over.

"You're actually alive!" she shouted to him by way of greeting. "I was sure you'd be dead by now. Would have bet on 'crapped out by a hobgoblin,' if I had any money to wager."

Xan cringed at the description, and the smile on the woman's face grew. It took Ashura a moment to place her: Shar-Teel, the mercenary she had traveled with briefly.

"I assure you that I am just as surprised," Xan muttered, shifting away from the tall woman. "It is good to see you as well, Shar-Teel."

"Really? You're sure not acting like it." She planted her feet, placed her hands on her hips and leaned close. "How 'bout a kiss huh? If you're so glad." She puffed her lips out.

Xan tried and completely failed to contain the horror on his face, and Shar-Teel let out a hearty laugh. Instead of a kiss she balled her fist and planted a soft, mock-punch on Xan's cheek. "Ha! Still the easiest man in the world to mess with." She swiveled away from him.

"Nice little army you've got," Imoen noted, an arrow knocked and her eyes trained on the illusory wall.

Shar-Teel shrugged. "Was hoping we could fight our way out."

"That may not be an option now," Xan said. "The man who appears to rule here did something to activate a heavy steel door, sealing the way behind us."

"Hm." Shar-Teel glanced at an open doorway nearby. "Maybe we can use the secret passages? They're infested with undead dwarves, but they've come in handy."

The dwarf shook his head. "Don't think so. Can use that passage to get to the level above this one, but if he's activated the seals there'll be one just before the tunnel that leads up and out."

Shar-Teel cocked her head at him. "Know that for a fact?"

"Aye. I made the sealing mechanisms meself. Built 'em for Rieltar Anchev when he brought me here, after I acted like a fool and told him 'bout this old iron mine. One seal ta keep the water from the underground river out, then one for this level, one that locks the winch-and-pulley lift up tight, and finally a seal at the top. Fine dwarven mechanisms all. The bastard wanted this place secure in case of…well, invasion. That'n he wanted to be able to seal things up tight an tidy if he ever felt like flooding the place again."

Ashura glared at the dwarf. "So you built this fucking deathtrap?"

He raised an empty hand. "Not by choice. Took a lot of beatings before I finally put hammer to steel. Hopin' now I can atone for it. Help get me fellows out and destroy this place."

Ashura nodded slightly. "Sounds like a plan. How do we do it?"

"Ye need the key. Davaeorn, the pesky wizard who sealed the place, keeps it on his person. He's probably in his chambers at the bottom of the clanhold. Get the key off him and it can open every seal, including the one that blocks the river, on the top level."

Ashura sighed. "Going down to get back up then?"

"Think it's the only…" The dwarf's voice trailed off as an inhuman roar sounded, echoing through the tunnels. The illusionary wall wavered as a massive, armored figure plunged through it, a greatsword taller than a full-sized human leading the way.

Tazok bellowed as he caught one of the slave's pikes with his hand, using the other to effortlessly swing his sword down at the second slave. The blade plunged through the woman's forehead and split her skull with a gush of glistening red and black, and the ogre turned and pulled at the pike, impaling the other slave on his sword before the man could react.

As Tazok lifted the man, kicking and gurgling, off his feet he shot a wide-eyed glare at the rest of them. "Dosan!" he howled.

"Right here," Shar-Teel snarled, her stolen sword in one hand and a dagger in the other.

"I don't care who your father is! I'm going to KILL you!" And with that the ogre charged. Imoen, Coran and Garrick all fired their weapons at once, two arrows and a bolt striking and sinking into the ogre's thick hide, but he seemed oblivious. Even the hasty spell that Xan shot in his direction had no effect. Tazok's eyes and his bloody weapon were unwaveringly focused on Shar-Teel.

"Good!" she growled just before the blade came down and hacked into the dirt as she leapt aside. She backed away as the ogre hefted his sword and lashed out again with a wide slash that she managed to duck. Another arrow struck Tazok's back, shallow and wobbling, as Shar-Teel hopped backwards through a narrow opening and the ogre shrugged his body under the arch in pursuit.

A grinding of stone and the door to the secret passage slid back into place, one large rock among the many that formed the wall of the foundry. And with that they were gone.

"Ack!" Imoen exclaimed, rushing to the wall and pressing her hands against it. "Where's the switch? We need to go after him!"

"That…may not be wise," Xan said, biting is lower lip. "You saw how that creature ignored arrows, and even spells. I am not even sure all of us combined could take him down, especially in a confined space."

"What? You're just gonna let her die? Abandon her?"

"She is buying us time. Time we desperately need to be taking advantage of."

Ashura nodded. "We need that key. To get out of here, and to end this place." Her eyes fell on the dwarf. "Which way to the 'Master of the Mines?'"

Imoen gave the stone wall another hurt look, then turned her gaze to Xan.

"She is making a noble sacrifice," the Greycloak stated glumly.

* * *

In the dark confines of the ancient dwarven tunnel Shar-Teel's teeth gleamed, a clenched combination of a grimace and a grin. The lamp the dwarf had brought would have been nice, but she could see well enough by the ambient light that flitted in from the inhabited section of the Clanhold through cracks in the wall. Well enough to make out the gleam of Tazok's greatsword as he lunged forward and stabbed. Well enough to dodge. Again and again and again.

Her snarling smile grew. This was _perfect._ The weapon was far too massive to swing in the narrow tunnel, and all he could do was jab and jab. Quick little thrusts that she saw coming, weaving and ducking and backing from the sword. "Going to kill me huh?" Shar-Teel taunted. "Funny. Still feel very much alive!"

The ogre simply growled and tried to swing, his blade sending up a puff of dust as it struck a wall, then the ceiling. Seeing an opening, Shar-Teel managed to press her sword to his and get enough leverage to hold it against the wall, slipping in and sinking her dagger into one of his meaty fists.

As the ogre howled Shar-Teel managed to skip back a few steps, lightning quick, once again bobbing away from the awkward stabs of the greatsword. On open ground he could have speared her easily, but here in the cramped dark it was a simple matter to weave away, showing Tazok her sharp grin all the while.

Hop back. Duck. Shift to the right. Another bob of her head as steel whistled over. Another opening and she slashed at his knuckles. Another exhilarating dance away from the flashing steel. There was foam in a corner of the ogre's mouth now, and Shar-Teel's face hurt from the constant barring of her teeth.

This was it! This was what she was _made_ for. Fooling a big raging hulk of a man into letting _her_ choose the ground; letting _her_ control the duel. And there was no bigger, more raging, more obnoxious hulk of muscle and confidence and spite than Tazok the Bandit King.

His skin seemed waxy, and the sword had slowed. "You're getting sloppy," Shar-Teel taunted. "I bet…one of those," a huff, "…arrows was poisoned."

"Yeah, maybe," Tazok growled, a little composure returning to his face. "But at least I'm not out of BREATH!" On the last word he stopped stabbing and bull-rushed her, head pitched forward and one armored arm leading protectively.

The burst of speed was enough to overtake her, their swords locking and ringing against a wall and her dagger slipping past the steel plate. She buried the blade into his forearm but that didn't stop it from bashing into her face, nor his knee from slamming into her ribs at nearly the same instant and sending her flying backwards.

Shar-Teel skidded and rolled across the stone floor, dagger lost and all her effort on keeping the grip on her sword. Rolling, then she swiftly found her feet and dashed backwards as fast as she could, barely ducking under a stab that would have split her skull.

_ By all the Hells and the maw of the Abyss!  _ Even on unfavorable ground he was a bloody monster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the Enhanced Edition Eldoth is armed with a scimitar, and since he kind of looks like a pirate and comes from an island of viking-types I couldn't help but think 'cutlass.'
> 
> The elven and drow words used in the conversation between Viconia and Kivan come partly from Forgotten Realms sources and are partly things I just made up to fill in the gaps.
> 
> dos – 'You'
> 
> vrukaphol – Literally translates as 'Diseased penis.' Originally associated with a particular venereal disease, but far more commonly used as a catchall insult for drow males.
> 
> savalsen esser –'Murdering harpy.' It's the 'elven curse' Kivan used when he first met Viconia many chapters back.
> 
> phlysh zhaunil – 'Some (small) wisdom.'


	42. The Flood

_"The Lord of Murder shall perish, but in his doom he shall spawn scores of mortal progeny. Chaos will be sown from their passage."_ –Alaundo the Seer

 

* * *

"Wait Shura! Stop!" For emphases an invisible forearm bumped up against her chest, barring the way. "That hall's brimming with warding glyphs! Painted floor to ceiling with 'em!"

Ashura squinted at the long corridor, not seeing anything. She took her friend's word for it though. They had filed down a winding staircase into a cozy chamber with a desk and a soft, plain rug, where a single guardsman had greeted them with a blade and met a quick end. Down the hallway Ashura caught hints of a more opulent chamber; rugs, padded chairs, sofas and a candelabra hanging over it all.

"The layer of a powerful mage," Xan murmured in a low voice that he barely seemed to be in control of, his eyes wide and scanning the walls. "We should not be here."

Glaring over at the elf, Ashura muttered: "Shouldn't be in a lot of places. But here we are."

Xan said nothing, his eyes shifting to the gems in the hilt of his sword. Ahead of them there was a low fizzling sound as some sort of symbol on the floor glowed briefly and then went out, snuffed by a pinch of alchemical powder.

Ashura finally noticed the rest of the writing now. The color of the chalk had been picked to blend in with the stonework.

She glanced back at Xan. "You're our only mage. You're going to need to counter his spells. Dispel stuff."

Xan shook his head. "So simple. 'Dispel stuff.' You have no idea…"

"Yes it is that simple. He's one man, backed into a corner, and we have a small army." She tilted her head towards the slaves, all armed now and lined up behind Yeslick. Kind of a useless army, since they weren't really trained to fight and could only go two by two down the narrow halls, but _The Tome of Leadership_ would have probably advised against such talk.

There was another sputtering sound as more glyphs burned away, and at the same time a sly, Luskan voice echoed off the walls. It sounded as if it came from everywhere at once, boosted by magic. "You should listen to your simpering friend. Setting foot in my layer is the most foolish thing you have yet done." Then the voice began to chant.

"Lighting!" Imoen shouted over her shoulder. The warning was swiftly followed by a white-hot glow that zipped through the darkness. With sharp crack the bolt raced up the hallway, flashing sparks and bits of sizzling stone flying in its wake as the streak bounded from wall to wall.

Ashura dove to her stomach and hugged the floor, the others scattering behind her; some diving into the nearby side-room while others scrambled back up the stairs. With a _crack-crackle_ that had all the hairs on Ashura's arms standing up the flash zipped by, grunts, gasps and a scream of pain following in its wake.

Springing to her feet as she blinked back spots, Ashura spared a backwards glance. Black smoke was rising in little coils from Faldorn's shoulders and a burnt hole in her hide shirt, and one of the slaves lay sprawled out on the floor behind her. Strangely, the druidess looked more annoyed than anything, and she carefully placed her hands together, fingers bridged, beginning to snarl out some sort of chant. There was a faint shimmer that hung about Faldorn's shoulders; some sort of elemental protection by Ashura's guess.

Turning her head, Ashura raced down the hall. Wards or no, she wasn't waiting for another bolt like that. Chalky script written across the floor caught her eye just before she was on top of it, and she managed to leap over. The ward flared to life nonetheless.

Followed by a bright blue glow, Ashura sprinted and burst into a sitting room, lined with couches and cushions. Five identical versions of Davaeorn stood upon a soft blue carpet in the center, aglow with magical protections, their arms folded over their chests and a smirk on five pairs of lips.

Pain shot through Ashura's left shoulder and she slowed involuntarily. Another jolt struck her back, sparks flying with a sizzling sound, followed swiftly by another that had the back of her arm shaking and singing with pain.

The ward must have unleashed a flurry of arcane bolts. She kept her grip on her swords through it all, head down and legs pumping.

The multiple Davaeorn's had begun to wave their arms and chant again when she reached them, a slash of her sword passing through one and sending it wavering out of existence. A bright, mirror-like surface appeared behind each of the four remaining images, and they stepped backwards through it, vanishing in a burst of light that spiraled down to a pinprick.

Ashura took a deep breath and glanced around. On one side there was a sharply bending hallway, on the other an adjoining room where water gleamed; some sort of large bath-chamber. Ahead of her was another room where she caught a glimpse of a bed. _Now where did he go?_

The answer came in the form of a bright yellow glow that rushed in from the right-hand hallway. A ball of growling flames! She had just begun to scramble away when the light blinded her and a wave of force and heat threw her off her feet for the second time that day.

Before sight returned there was pain; burning agony from every pore. Crackling filled her ears, her desperate breaths sucking in heat and the stench of burning hair and cloth. She managed to force her pinched eyes open, and -thank whatever gods were watching- caught a glimpse of the doorway to the baths.

With all her strength Ashura pushed her way through and plunged into the shallow water. There was a hiss, and then her ears were under, her face against the cool marble at the bottom of the pool. She came up with a shudder, gagging on a lungful of water followed by a long series of hacking coughs.

At least she wasn't on fire anymore. That was an improvement.

Once the coughing had run its course she fumbled with her belt and found the last of her healing potions there, yanking out the cork and greedily drinking the sickly-sweet liquid down. The raw pain subsided as she tossed the vial away and wobbled out of the shallow pool.

Up ahead the sitting room was a ruin, couches and chairs and carpet all blackened and smoldering. From the halls the ring and groan of clashing steel echoed. Where her friends fighting more guards? What of the mage?

As she stepped towards the source of the noise something strange floated into view: an ornate, square shield next to a whirling flail, followed by a helmet decorated with gilded wings. All three objects hovered close together, suspended in the air and bobbing towards her.

The spiked ball of the flail spun and spun until it became a blur, and Ashura found herself hopping aside as it lashed out at her face. Her swords were up in a guard but she was uncertain where to stab. A testing strike passed through empty air beneath the helmet and had no effect, and the closely whipping flail forced her to duck and weave away.

Reflex had her going through the motions of a duel; side-stance, knees loose, lefthand sword up in a middle guard and right held back in reserve. All fine and good when you're fighting a person, but the lack of body language –and lack of a body!- from her opponent soon threw her off. With a whirl the flail flew higher than she thought it could and when Ashura tried to dodge she misjudged the direction of the spinning chain.

Heavy steel smashed into the side of her helmet, a little blood trickling down her cheek where the spike had scratched as she hobbled backwards, light-headed and trying to keep her feet.

She backed away from another swing, the flat square shield quickly turning in the air; vertical to horizontal in an instant. It flashed forward and rammed into her stomach, crushing the breath from her lungs and sending her retreating a few more stumbling steps, knocking a barrel over as she went.

_Eye of Talos!_ Did this thing even follow the same rules a human opponent would? Or was she just fighting floating objects that could twist and lash whichever way they pleased?

Not an opponent at all. _Just objects_.

Another step back and Ashura let go of her lefthand sword, the blade falling to the floor with a clank. When the flail came whirling in again she lunged _towards_ it, turning the left side of her body and grunting when the chain stung her hand and the spiked ball grazed her bicep. She grasped the chain and managed to get it tangled around her arm, pressing forward to grab at the haft of the flail.

With quick tugs and terrible strength the constructed struggled to pull its weapon from her as she pushed herself in past the shield. Ashura held on, raising her right hand and slamming the pommel of her sword down against the floating helmet.

The helmet buckled and warbled in the air with the first strike. The shield slammed against Ashura's back in an awkward swipe that she ignored, and there was a noticeable dent with the second blow. The next strike deepened the dent, and the fourth knocked one of the wings from the helmet. Again and again she hammered down with the pommel, her other arm shaking as she tried to keep the flail-haft from pulling away, the force threatening to rip her arm from its socket.

Another bash and the battered helmet trembled in the air, then the supernatural strength Ashura had felt tugging at her arm and slamming against her back simple vanished and the objects all fell, limp and graceless to the floor, the chain uncoiling from her arm and the shield clattering.

A few desperate breaths stolen, then Ashura turned around and bent to retrieve her second sword, the sounds of battle still ringing through the halls. When she stood something golden and familiar caught her eyes, glittering in the lamplight.

The frantic struggle with the construct had taken her into an alcove, where two wide stone steps led up from the hard-packed dirt to a shrine of sorts. Granite carved in the shape of upturned talons rose from each side of the dais, gripping stone bowls stained a rusty brown. Between the talons, at the center of the shrine, stood an ornate golden bowl upon a slender pillar, full of pristine water.

Looming over it all was a great stone disk, a symbol engraved upon its surface in gold that shone bright as the fires of Gehenna. A leering, golden skull, something about it giving the impression that it was grinning at an ancient joke. And around the skull: a halo of tears.

For what seemed like an eternity Ashura found herself staring, horrified and fascinated, into the empty eye-sockets of the thing. Just a bit of gold and cold dead stone, but it felt for all the world like something was staring back.

A shadow moved and Ashura whirled, suddenly remembering the battle. There stood Davaeron, cloaked in magic and grinning ear to ear, through at least there was only one of him now. His hand flew into the air just before she charged him, palm open as he chanted.

A bright burst and something heavy and wet struck Ashura in the chest, feet leaving the floor as she flew backwards. With a bone-jarring jolt she struck the stone disk and stayed there, something tight and sticky constricting against her arms and torso. Her feet scraped against the floor, kicking. Soon as she had breath again she twisted her body, pulling at the clinging webs.

"Perfect that I find you here," Davaeorn said with a grin. "My master will be pleased when he learns your blood spilled upon _that_ symbol. A fitting sacrifice." He took a step closer, glancing back as the commotion in the chamber grew. A wave of his hand and a few resonant words conjured rolling flames that filled the hallway behind him, churning and crackling from floor to ceiling.

"Don't even know…" Ashura snarled as she pulled and struggled with the strands that where biting into her arms, "…who your…fucking master is! Or what that symbol means!"

Davaeorn's eyes actually widened in surprise, a look that quickly turned to mirth. "My master? Your brother of course. You don't _know_?" A chuckle, and then another. Soon he was shaking his head and laughing hard. "I thought since you sought me out… Haha! But you have that clueless look in your eyes. How rich!" Another burst of laughter.

"The ward of Gorion Adrian." He kept shaking his head. "Raised in the repository of all of Faerun's knowledge, mundane and secret. Raised in a citadel built around Aluendo's prophesies, and you don't even know what this symbol represents? You don't even know what you are?"

"Well bloody enlighten me!" Ashura shouted. A sharp tug of one arm and she felt the webbing give just a little.

"You had plenty of time to enlighten yourself in the Great Library. Though it seems somehow you turned out an oaf instead of a scholar. Bad parenting or bad parents, I wonder?" He took a step closer. "Well, I suppose I-" Davaeorn paused and frowned, glancing back at the wall of flames. It had begun to hiss and sputter.

His face hardened and he shook his head. "Best to end this quickly."

Ashura had never ceased struggling, but now she took a deep breath and doubled the effort, every muscle flexing and one arm twisting after the other as she pushing at the sticky strands, wriggling her hips where they were bound to the stone. It was _not_ ending like this! Not until she had some bloody answers!

The Luskan mage began to hum, index finger circling as he intoned his spell, eyes narrowed upon her. A long incantation, and though Ashura knew little of magic she figured that long meant powerful. Meant deadly. With a snarl and a yank Ashura felt the strand against her right wrist snap, her sword arm jerking free.

With a simple _poof_ the wall of flames fluttered to the ceiling and vanished. The roar of the fire that had filled the alcove was suddenly gone, replaced by an eerie silence. Less than a heartbeat later the silence broke with a resonant _trill_ loud enough to wake the dead. Davaeorn's hands clapped to his ears as he winced and bent forward.

The source of the sound-burst appeared, racing down the hall with his rapier pointed forward. Davaeorn spun around and raised a fingertip, aiming straight at Garrick as the bard bounded towards him. A quickly barked spell and sizzling light gathered at the tip of the mage's finger. With the final word he lashed out, the dim chamber lit by a blue-white flash.

Ashura felt the webbing at her left wrist rip.

As the flash faded Garrick slipped past with supernatural precision, a little white smoke trailing from his shoulder as he lunged and stabbed. There was a burst of light and a pained gasp when the rapier bit through magical protections and the mage stumbled backwards, clutching at his wounded chest.

Two wobbling steps and Davaeorn was close enough for Ashura to run him through the back with both swords, letting out a shout to rival Garrick's deafening spell as she lifted the mage briefly off his feet, fully skewered. A twist of both blades, then she flung him, face-first and unmoving, to the floor.

Panting hard, Ashura leaned back against the stone disk, her backside still stuck to the symbol and her toes awkwardly brushing the dais. She gave the Luskan mage a weary look, but he didn't seem to be moving. Eventually her eyes went up to Garrick as she pulled at the strands of the web.

The bard moved in to help her and soon she was standing fully. He gave her a weary smile, still struggling for breath. "Wow. Did I actually uh…rescue you for once?"

Ashura snorted, peeling a rope off and grumbling as she tried and failed to shake it from her hands. "Not the first time. Remember that hobgoblin that was trying to strangle me, back on the caravan trail?"

"Bah. You would have bludgeoned him to death with that piece of wood anyway."

"Heh, maybe." Ashura shrugged, smiling. "Still. I think Captain Kagain picked well when he made us partners." She let out a relieved laugh, squeezed his shoulder and managed to take a few steps forward, still covered in webbing but free enough. They both found themselves leaning against each other, trying to keep steady.

With a glance backwards Ashura asked: "Know what that symbol represents? The skull in the ring of droplets?"

"Oh yeah. That's the holy symbol of Bhaal. The Lord of Murder. The old death-god who got destroyed during the Time of Troubles." He frowned. "A little odd to keep a shrine to a dead god."

Ashura's body stiffened and she turned, looking sharply at the skull and its halo. The symbol that had been stamped on the chest of her father's killer. The symbol that had been haunting her dreams ever since that night. Dreams that had come along with newfound and unexplained powers.

_"My master? Your brother of course."_

_"We are all of us children of Death. And I will be his favored."_

"Of course there's that prophesy," Garrick was saying. "About Bhaal foreseeing his death and spawning countless children before that to spread his power out in preparation. I think that's how it goes at least."

" _'The Lord of Murder shall perish, but in his doom he shall spawn scores of mortal progeny. Chaos shall be sown from their passage,'_ " Ashura recited. She shook her head a bit, as if that could shake the notion out. But it lingered.

"Well shit," she muttered. "That explains some things." She glanced down at her empty hand, where she knew the ghostfire could come up if she called it.

Garrick gave her a puzzled look.

"The chanters recited that prophesy a lot," Ashura explained. "Back in Candlekeep." She whirled away from the altar and stepped over to Davaeron's corpse. "This guy has the key to open the seals, right?"

 

* * *

"I saw no secret passages when I was here," Kivan muttered.

"Well of course not," Viconia replied with a roll of her eyes, fingertips searching the stonework. "If any fool could spot them they would not be secret."

"And why would you when Coran and I failed?"

"I know quite a bit of dwarven stonework," she explained.

"Hm?"

"Often times I dealt with the durgar for house DaVir. And after that there were some…most unpleasant encounters with dwarven clans, in my exile." A stone shifted beneath her fingers, and when she pressed harder it sank into the wall. There was a grinding sound as a larger stone nearby slipped in a bit and then rolled away.

As the passage yawned open a woman in filthy leather armor stumbled out. One unsteady step and she tumbled backwards, her back and helmet smacking against the floor as she let out a subdued growl. The hilt and jagged blade of a broken sword was clutched feebly in her right hand, and with her left hand she gripped her bicep. Her arm was twisted unnaturally, bruised and bloody.

Kivan blinked as he stared down at the woman, recognizing the sharp beak of a nose and blonde hair. Shar-Teel's eyes opened, damp and unfocused, though perhaps there was some recognition, because her first words to Kivan were: "Oh…you?"

Before he could think to say anything there was a roar from the open passage and something massive pushed its way through, righting itself to tower over the three of them; eight feet tall, bald, armored, covered in bloody gouges, furious and _very_ familiar.

Kivan found himself taking an involuntary step back as Tazok reared up, and by then Shar-Teel had rolled over and found her feet, pitching forward and running as fast as she could for the other side of the room as her broken sword clattering to the floor behind her. Kivan raised his halberd just as the ogre shoved his way past him and Viconia without a glance, hefting his greatsword and bearing down on Shar-Teel and Shar-Teel alone.

"RASHELT!" he bellowed as his stomps became a full charge, and in an instant the ogre and the fleeing woman disappeared down the far passageway.

Shaking his head, Kivan gripped his weapon, glancing at the secret passage. Where the others down there? What was-

Viconia shot him a scowl. "Your chance for vengeance just flew by you, did it not? Why hesitate?"

Narrowing his eyes at her, Kivan nodded and whirled. He had nearly passed beneath the doorway that led out of the storage room when he realized that he had shown the drow his back, and for a good twelve paces at least. He slowed and gave her a backwards glance, but Viconia was there at his heel, hands empty and eyes ahead.

Turning his head, Kivan followed the sounds of the roaring ogre through the hall and then up a flight of stairs that led to the mining tunnels. _Trust is for the foolish, but perhaps I have misjudged her._

 

* * *

"I don't…have time to…bleed out," Shar-Teel growled to herself as she stumbled through the darkness. No weapons, several broken ribs, a broken arm and a long gash across the chest. Not exactly how she pictured her greatest duel ending. Her head swam and she staggered against the cavern wall, the stone the only thing keeping her up.

"Fucking abyss," she muttered to herself, fighting for breath. She was made for quick, decisive fights. In the end the big, indestructible ogre had simply worn her down. Perhaps she'd at least lost him in-

A meaty hand shot out of the darkness and latched around her neck, slamming the back of her head against the wall. She tasted blood where she had bitten her tongue, and there was a tickling against her belly; the cold steel of Tazok's sword pressing there and ready to skewer her. The broad, flat face of the Bandit King swam into view and Shar-Teel gave him a scowl. "Be done with it then," she managed through bloody teeth.

For what seemed like ages the narrow, gleaming eyes of the ogre just glared at her as he held her tattered body against the rock. Then, ever so slightly, he shook his head. The steel slid away and the greatsword slammed and stuck into the earth.

"Not letting you off quick and easy," Tazok growled. "You've caused me _far_ too much trouble." His lips quivered and his tusks gleamed. "You'll be screaming before the end. I _promise._ "

She just glared, her lips twitching in a hard, pained scowl, as the ogre reached down for his belt. She would _not_ give him the satisfaction of seeing fear. Nor would she let out a scream, if she could help it.

"No." A new voice. Male. Cold and sharp.

The word was accompanied by a silver flash and a shower of hot blood that forced Shar-Teel to close her eyes and turn her face. The grip on her neck loosened, and when she blinked the blood back from her eyes she realized that the ogre's hand was barely hanging on. It slipped down and fell to the floor before her, unattached at the wrist.

Tazok reeled back, gripping at the stump and howling at the ceiling.

Kivan's voice was barely audible beneath the scream. "You're never doing what you did to Deheriana ever again, monster," the ranger growled, cold and firm; bloody halberd in hand. He raised the axe for another slash, but before he could the ogre sent up a wild kick, his toe striking the elf in the stomach and sending him flying back.

Reaching frantically for his belt with his blood-soaked right hand, Tazok tore a blue potion bottle out, popping the cork free with his thumb before showering half the liquid onto his bleeding stump and gulping down the rest. The gushing and pulsing stopped, and as Kivan returned to his feet the ogre managed to grab the hilt of his greatsword and lift it one-handed.

A wild swing of the blade forced Kivan to block, splinters flying from the shaft of his halberd. The elf danced away from a second slash, his axeblade ringing against the greatsword with the next blow. With a snarl Kivan matched the ogre's strength, the guard at the top of his halberd deflecting slash after slash.

"Demogorgon's four shaggy balls!" Shar-Teel breathlessly swore as Viconia knelt down beside her and began to chant a healing prayer. Was there _anything_ that could kill that damn ogre?

 

* * *

A click and a metallic whirr, and Yeslick's metal seal slipped away and vanished into the walls. The moment it was gone Ashura marched through, taking the steps up to the next level three at a time. Garrick and Faldorn followed on her heels, eyes shifting, crossbow and club ready. As they started down the tunnel there was a sound of scuffing feet behind, and a glance back showed Yeslick and Imoen hurrying to catch up, legs pumping away and five women in threadbare dresses trailing behind them.

"That's all of 'em from the servant's quarters," Imoen said, pointing to the slaves with a jab of her thumb. Rill and his little army had taken the pulley-lift ahead of them, accompanied by Coran, Xan and Eldoth. They would be waiting on the other side of the last seal, which Ashura marched towards now, crossing the great chamber where the mining tracks intersected.

Nervous miners stood at the edges of the cave, picks brandished like weapons and no one working at the ore anymore. There was no sign of guards or overseers, and Ashura guessed that the few that had been left up here during all the fighting below had gotten a pick through the skull for their troubles.

She raced to the far tunnel and opened the last seal, Rill and the rest stepping through as soon as it parted. "We'll evacuate our brothers," the old, gaunt servant said as he passed, shouldering his spear. "Give us a little time, and then see what you can do about that last seal eh?"

Ashura nodded. She was less reluctant about that plan now, since they had pillaged Davaeorn's chamber pretty thoroughly and taken his apprentice prisoner, bound and gagged and following Xan to the surface. Hopefully he would have answers, and once the last of the Black Talons were floating in watery graves it would be safe to sort things out.

At the broad intersection where the mining rails converged they gathered once again, the miners filing past towards the shaft to the surface. Yeslick pointed a stubby finger down one of the passageways. "The seal I built to keep the great river out should be up there."

"How exactly _are_ we going to open it and not…you know, drown?" Imoen asked.

"That be a pickle," Yeslick observed. "Figure the heartless sods always intended for a slave to open it, if they ever wanted to cover this place up."

"I'll do it," Faldorn volunteered in her soft, even voice. Ashura glanced at her. "If I must sacrifice myself to bring an end to this fortress and the trespassers I shall." She inclined her head. "I do have one transformation left in me, as well."

Imoen quirked an eyebrow. "Going to turn into a fish?"

Faldorn nodded humorlessly.

"I suppose that could work," Ashura said, handing the key over to the druidess. She glanced at Yeslick and Imoen, and the five servant-women who had been following them, a bit lost and bewildered. "Alright, help this lot evacuate. Faldorn, Garrick and I will go to the seal, kill anyone who's guarding it and finish things up." Ashura and Imoen gave each other a brief 'Good luck,' and then she turned and headed for the tunnel Yeslick had pointed out.

Time to make a right proper mess of things. _Hopefully Talos will be proud_. Though, Ashura found herself wondering as she marched through the narrow cave: was there even a point in having a patron god if she really was what she suspected? Like or not, perhaps she had been serving Father Death this whole time.

 

* * *

The great demonic bat screamed as it unfurled its wings in the darkness and swept through the tunnel, but the scream went up in pitch and the graceful flutter turned to frantic buffeting when Tazok's blade collided with its skull. In the same instant he fended off a blow from Kivan's axe, the blade bouncing off the steel bracer at the ogre's left stump. Tazok had made good use of that bit of armor since he lost his hand, using it almost like a shield and moving faster than he had any right to.

" _Jinat iblith_!" Viconia swore as her summoned bat dissolved into wisps of darkness. She threw what appeared to be her last chakram before backing away with a frustrated hiss. The disk struck a steel plate and flew away uselessly, though it may not have done any more good if it had struck flesh. There were already three disks imbedded in Tazok's back, along with the arrows and crossbow bolts, and he hardly seemed to pay attention to them. Between his armor and his elephant-like hide such weapons appeared to be useless.

Tazok noticed the attack at least, and he swung his body suddenly and sent Viconia skittering back with a swipe of his blade.

Her throwing weapons spent, Viconia threw her hands out and invoked her goddess. There was a burst of impenetrably blackness all around her, a reverse-light that filled the corridor she had backed into. Tazok took one swing at the dark cloud before turning to swat Kivan's halberd aside.

They exchanged a few more blows, axeblade and sword scraping and singing, each clash sending jolts of pain through Kivan's arms. There was no sign of the drow from the cloud of darkness. No doubt she had retreated.

Kivan didn't blame her. It seemed there was nothing she could do against this unstoppable brute. The warrior-woman was nowhere in sight as well, but he didn't blame her either. Last he had seen she was injured and had no weapons.

Now it was just him and the great hulking beast from his nightmares, matching each other blow for blow. The moment Kivan had prayed to the Black Archer for, though hardly as satisfying as he had hoped. He could barely match the ogre's speed and strength, and he was sure that was only because his foe was short a hand.

The look in the ogre's eyes sharpened as his blade pressed against the haft of the halberd, strength overpowering Kivan and forcing him to disengage and dance back. "I recognize those tattoos," Tazok muttered. "Didn't I kill you once?"

"You did," Kivan growled.

"Ha!" A pained grin grew on the ogre's face. "Just so you know. Not the first time a revenant's come after me. Chopped the wormy thing in half easy enough." A great swing of his sword sent Kivan hopping backwards. "Of course you're made of flesh and blood." Steel clashed with steel, again and again. "Think I remember now. The one who pulled himself down after we nailed him up?"

"Aye," Kivan snarled. The memories put fresh fury in his swings, but Tazok parried each ringing blow.

The ogre was grinning ear to ear now, enjoying the breathless, huffing banter. "Feisty. Good on you." Wooden halberd-haft pushed the blade away, a bit of the sturdy oak splintering off. "Though…" A huff. "Before the escape I remember you being a mewling little thing. Seem to recall a lot of crying while we had our fun with you. Doubly so when we got to that red-haired she-elf. Guess she was yours."

Kivan danced left, swinging in right. He let out a grunt when the ogre caught his axeblade with the hilt of his sword and flung him back.

"Tougher than I thought you were," Tazok gasped, giving the crusted, bloody stump on his own left arm a glance. "But not as tough as ME!"

Bristling with arrows, bolts, a dagger and chakrams, bleeding in countless places, his left hand gone, yet _still_ the ogre managed to tilt his body and swing his oversized sword with a sudden burst of speed. Kivan blocked, but the strength of the slash knocked the haft of his halberd aside, splinters flying and the oaken shaft nearly snapping in two. A sudden backswing from Tazok scraped across his midsection, tearing through leather and flesh. There was intense, burning pain and sudden wetness as Kivan stumbled back and slammed against something thick and metallic.

Another great slash and the halberd flew apart with a crack, a gash opening across Kivan's chest. Tazok's blade flashed in for a stab, but the elf managed to slip to the side, barely avoiding being skewered as the greatsword rang against the steel wall. The ogre raised his blade once more, but paused and winced as the sound of a crossbow string and the whistle of a bolt echoed through the cavern.

"More bug bites!" the Bandit King howled, turning on his heel. As he spun he lifted his foot and struck Kivan full in the face with his toes. The kick slammed the back of the elf's head against the metal seal with nearly enough force to break his neck, and for a time his head bobbed, numb and unfocused; the world robbed of sound.

Eventually Kivan's vision cleared and the ring of steel came to his ears, along with Tazok's furious shouts. "Ash!" he bellowed, trading blows with a woman in charred and stained chainmail. She managed to turn his blade aside and lunge with her second sword, opening a wide gouge across the ogre's stomach.

Her next stab came short when Tazok kicked her feet out from under her. The ogre's blade swooped down and struck dirt, his opponent rolling away and leaping back up.

_By the Seldarine, that beast can kick_! Kivan struggled to catch his breath and sit fully upright, a helpless spectator to the fight.

Ashura ducked under the next great swipe of the ogre's sword, but was caught by a fierce backswing, the blade striking her chest and knocking her back towards the far side of the tunnel. The girl wobbled on unsteady feet, her chainmail torn but free of blood.

Instead of pursuing, Tazok actually stumbled back a bit and leaned on the wall, breathing deep and trying to work up some more fury.

Faldorn had been chanting something, and with a flourish of her oaken club she finished the incantation and pointed at the ogre. There was a scraping sound; a groaning vibration that ran through the stone at Tazok's back and beneath his feet just before the rock leapt to life. Sharpened spikes of stone sprung from the wall and floor, plunging through the backs of Tazok's legs, his shoulders and his back. The ogre arched and howled in agony.

As Tazok's body stiffened and then slumped against the spikes a fierce grin broke across Faldorn's face and she rushed towards the ogre, her warclub shimmering with a golden light as she raised it high.

A sudden burst of motion and Tazok lunged, blood flowing where he pulled himself off the spikes, his right arm lashing forward. The end of the blade caught Faldorn in the torso and her eyes went wide, a pained "Gurk!" leaving her lips as the greatsword sunk deep and blood welled up at the back of her shirt.

She stumbled backwards, off the blade, the club falling from her hand as she clutched her side. When she tumbled forward a gleaming bronze object fell from her other hand, clattering across the ground.

_A key_ , Kivan thought. He felt the cool steel on the wall he had been leaning against and realization hit. This was the plug that held the river back. The one the slave had told them of, when he asked them to drown this cursed place.

Ashura was marching forward now, swords still in hand and a scowl on her face, and behind her Garrick was loading another useless crossbow bolt. With a force of will Kivan pushed himself up and stood.

"Ashura!" he shouted, reaching his hand out. "The key!" She turned towards him, followed his look, and understanding dawned in her eyes.

She did not pause or hesitate. Ramming one sword into its sheath, Ashura dove towards Faldorn's prone body, picking up the tiny key while Tazok wriggled and pushed himself fully off the spikes a few paces away. She turned towards Kivan, their eyes met, and she tossed the piece of bronze.

If Kivan had not been in so much pain he may have smiled. He had always liked the girl. All business, and ready to do what must be done without hesitation, even if that meant reckless action. He snatched the key from the air, and as he did Tazok pulled himself off the last spike and stomped forward.

The ogre was no fool. He had seen Kivan make the catch, and was now running straight towards him, sword forward and readying for a lunge.

_Good! Come closer you bastard._ This was exactly what Kivan had prayed to Shevarash for. And though he had doubted for a time, the Black Archer had answered.

An answer to the prayer that had been in his heart for years, like or not. A prayer that had lost its appeal.

In that moment Kivan realized that he did not wish to die. Did not wish to leave the poor, sad-eyed _teu_ to stew in his own misery and doubt alone. He did not wish to part with the sunny girl with the auburn hair. He did not wish to never quietly walk the forest paths with the carefree, grinning _or_ again. And perhaps with time even he and the drow could have been friends.

If only his prayers and his quest had not taken him down this path. But here he was, and Kivan did not hesitate to slam the key into the hole at the center of the seal. Businesslike. You cannot pause, when it comes time to do what must be done.

Kivan barely felt the greatsword ramming through his stomach. His other hand was busy lifting the axeblade of the broken halberd, gripping hard as he slammed it down and dug deep into Tazok's arm.

_Good. We're bound now. There's no escape._ The ogre's face was right in front of his, froth on his lips as he mindlessly howled.

A twist of the key, and with dwarven-engineered speed and precision the seal curled away, a trickle hitting Kivan's shoulder that instantly became a torrent. He gripped the axeblade hard and held on tight as the gate opened fully and countless tons of cold, raging water struck him and Tazok both.

 

* * *

As the thunderous sound of the flood echoed from the cavern walls, Ashura and Garrick ran for their lives. They were ten strides from the struts of the wooden mineshaft when water started flowing past their boots. Two more strides and the first wave buffeted the backs of Ashura's legs. Garrick wobbled beside her and she shot a hand out to steady him, dragging the bard the last few steps to the wooden platform.

No time to fidget with the pulleys; they gripped the boards that braced the mineshaft and climbed, white froth and churning silt chasing them up and up. Hand over hand, wet boots slipping against the boards, catching and shoving each other when it looked like one might fall, they climbed and climbed.

The rising tide was soaking Ashura's feet now, and her legs, though the top was in sight. Five more feet and they could grasp the ledge and climb out.

Ashura's enchanted chainmail coat had saved her life moments ago, when she had taken a full blow from Tazok's sword. Now, as water sloshed all around, it threatened to drag her down. Right beside her Garrick wobbled a bit and his hands flailed, tottering off a beam.

Reaching over, Ashura pressed her arm against his back, steadying and holding on. Her other hand slipped above the ledge, feeling around for something to grab onto.

A hand grasped hers, big and strong and calloused. Ashura gripped with all her strength and the hand pulled, angry grunting coming from the top as the hand's owner strained. The water was almost up to their shoulders when a final tug yanked them high enough to swing arms over the edge and roll up.

Ashura found herself on her back and looking up at Shar-Teel's scowling face, Viconia close behind with her hands still on the warrior's armor where she had been tugging. "Should have…dropped the boy," Shar-Teel panted. "Bloody deadweight."

A chuckle. "Not an option." The water began the bubble up around the edge of the mineshaft, and as it did they turned and fled, running up steps and then out of the building and through the fort.

They did not slow until they were out of the compound and halfway up a grassy hill, panting and turning to watch the low moat that had surrounded the fortress walls grow into a lake. A cluster of people stood nearby, Xan and Yeslick, the surviving slaves and the others. They sat there for a time, silently watching the brown water churn, some of the sharpened logs tumbling over and beginning to float. Along with bodies.

Eventually Xan spoke up, a pained look on his face. "Kivan?" he simply asked.

Ashura shook her head. "He opened the seal. Right in Tazok's face too."

Xan was silent for a moment. "The end he was searching for…I…suppose." His voice cracked as he spoke, and tears rolled down his cheeks. Tears became sobs, wracking the spindly elf uncontrollably, and soon Imoen had her arm around him, her eyes wet as well.

"The druid's gone too," Coran noted, numbness in his voice.

"Yeah," Ashura said. "I think…" She hesitated as she watched something dark parting the waves and moving towards them. A head covered in damp black hair broke the surface and rose, and as she waded to the shore Faldorn tossed her chin back, a few strands still clinging to her face. Her hand was pressed to her side and her hides looked soaked and heavy, but she managed to climb onto the grass and walk unsteadily towards them.

"Wow," Imoen mumbled. As Faldorn neared she shouted: "So turning into a fish really worked?"

The druidess simply gave her a solemn nod.

 

 

**End of Part Three**


	43. Third Interlude - The Good Father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The subject of this chapter is maybe a bit dark, though in a way perhaps less dark than the scene from the games that it's based on. Suffice it to say children in a dangerous temple devoted to an evil god are involved.

Nightal 9, 1352 D.R.

That it had come to this.

Gorion stood, stiff-backed and for the moment safe, in the eye of a hurricane. Gleaming bones and tattered, rust-stained armor twitched and lunged all around him; half-a-dozen walking skeletons tapping their ancient weapons against his sphere of protective force.

Elsewhere in the press a great silver bear loomed above the dancing bones and shattered more and more of them with angry swipes of its paws. A few of the screeching, empty-eyed undead fought back with awkward strokes of their pikes, though most struggled against tendrils of darkness that had risen from the floor to entwine them.

In addition to the constricting tentacles, the red tiles at Gorion's feet were charred in places; burnt and blasted corpses laying close by. Mixed with the fresh bodies of fallen human guards were the half-rotten remains of ghouls and wights, along with the dusty outlines of summoned creatures, now dissolved. The remains of everything the priests could throw at him, when he had first come bounding into the room. Now only the sturdy skeletons and his summoned celestial bear remained.

Somewhere behind him Gorion could hear the sounds of an even fiercer battle: shouts, crackles, ringing steel and booming explosions. His companions were fighting through a legion of undead, along with the priests and cultists who controlled them. They had been separated moments ago, when he had raced past the bulk of the enemy with a space-bending spell, ignoring his companions and determined to reach the central chamber as fast as possible.

He simply had to. Had to see her.

Face upturned, Gorion ignored the raging melee in the great temple's inner chamber, his eyes focused on the raised platform ahead. Focused on the woman who stood upon it's edge, her icy-blue eyes locked with his. Bare toes peaked out from the hem of her robe and over the ledge, and her hood had slid back slightly to reveal sharply combed black hair. Her arms were crossed at her chest, pale, spindly fingers curled and clenched; her lips pressed together tightly, trembling with anger and frustration.

"I told you not to follow," the woman intoned in an icy voice that echoed from the domed ceiling and easily found Gorion's ears above the crack of bone and the roar of the bear. "Begged and threatened. Told you in a thousand ways, that last day in Silverymoon. And you _agreed_!"

Great pillars of blackened stone buttressed the corners of the chamber, one at either side of the raised platform, and in front of each pillar stood a row of towering statues. They were robed and clasping stylized scythes that doubled as supports for the red-and-black tiled ceiling high above. The temple's darkened walls were carved in the patterns of skulls and bones, chaotic and beyond counting, and piled floor to ceiling to create the illusion of an impossibly large mass grave.

There were other figures on the platform behind the woman; four men and two women in decorative robes of gilded black. Armor glinted beneath the outer clothes of some, and others were bedecked in enchanted jewelry and accessories that marked them as sorcerers. Behind the six adults huddled more figures; tiny, cowering and dressed in simpler hooded robes.

At the center of the platform stood an altar: a long basalt slab with curled, boney talons carved from its corners and ringed at the bottom with grinning skulls. Lines of burning braziers threw harsh, flickering firelight across the whole front of the temple, pungent smoke rising up to dance and curl before the great stone disk that loomed above it all. Emblazoned upon its face was the death's-head symbol of Bhaal.

"I did agree," Gorion admitted, trying not to clench his teeth. "But my superiors made no such vow to you, Alianna. And when they learned of this place…" He gestured towards the robed children hiding behind the skirts of the priests. "The sacrifice you're planning. You cannot expect them not to interfere."

"Them? No, but…" She shook her head. "There's no point. It was foolish of me to even ask back then. It's your _job_ to interfere. It was mine as well, when your masters needed dirty work done."

Gorion did not deny that.

"And your masters sent you because they thought you might talk me out of this? Or at least give me pause?"

"They did."

"You know me better than that."

He swallowed. "I do."

A swish of her robe and she turned from the edge and took a few steps, nearing the altar. "Then there is little more to say. Besides reminding you that your interference _forced_ this moment." The tiny figures in black robes stumbled forward now, prodded on by the stone-faced priests and mages. "The ritual could have waited years, since many of the children are not yet ready. But you forced our hand."

The last of the animated skeletons broke with a soft crunch, and the celestial bear turned and eyed the platform warily, its coat matted with blood and the silver that remained glowing with a pale light. Some of the priests had their fingers out and ready, though for now both parties held their spells back. Of course all that would change when the sphere of force wore off. It was a spell that kept Gorion safe, but kept him from acting as well. And they all knew it. A few moments now.

"You know I cannot let you sacrifice children," Gorion stated softly.

Each of the little figures, eight in all, had fanned out around the altar, though the smaller ones still clung to each other. Most looked nervous and confused, but there was stony determination in the eyes of the eldest three. The tallest among them was an adolescent girl, her ebony skin and the silver hair that spilled out from her cowl marking her as a drow. The other two were human boys, one with bronze skin and the other a darker shade of brown, both perhaps seven or eight years old. The rest of the children were quite a bit smaller, some mere toddlers who fidgeted as the others held them.

Alianna gave Gorion a puzzled look. "What? I thought you were smarter than that, Ion." She shook her head, then took a deep breath and turned her face up towards the great symbol of Bhaal. Her hands rose, palms open.

The pits of blackness in the carved skull flared to life and a shimmer grew in the air. All the fidgeting, uncertainty and restlessness left the children then, and they stood as straight and still as the temple acolytes they were dressed as. Gorion noticed faint wisps of light appear beneath their hoods, tiny sparks of the same glowing orange that burned in the eyes of the skull.

The furnace glow. The fires of Gehenna.

The smoky tendrils from the braziers seemed to grow more substantial, connecting the floor to the great skull and flooding the chamber with the inescapable smell of incense. There was pinewood in the smoke, and bonemeal and myrrh, along with the unmistakable scent of the black lotus.

"My Lord has great plans for his children. Why would he sacrifice them now?" The eldest three had reached to their belts, and in the firelight daggers gleamed. "Some are not yet _ready_ because their hands are too clumsy for knives." The dancing flames in the eye of the skull grew, billowing up to the temple ceiling, and all the children were holding blades now, heavy in their tiny hands. "But all my little ones shall try. You see, they are not to be sacrificed. They are to be _blooded_."

Alianna tugged at her black robes, shrugging them away and letting them fall beside the altar. She wore nothing beneath; no symbol or jewelry or even a tie to bind the long black hair that spilled across her shoulders. Just pale, smooth skin; an unadorned sacrifice. Gorion's eyes widened as he realized the implications, his fingers reflexively stretching in preparation for a spell.

But behind the conjured sphere of force he could do nothing. It protected him from the world and shut him out at once.

Sitting down upon the cold slab of basalt, Alianna continued. "Each of these children has called me mother, since they were gathered and brought here. I have raised them, and taught the eldest my Lord's ways. And with their mother's end they shall be prepared for the next steps of the Lord of Murder's plan." She slipped her legs up and stretched across the altar, the hooded children forming a semicircle around and each clutching their tiny blades.

Firelight flickered from beneath the hoods, and in that moment they seemed more like imps than children. Little devils, that one day might grow large. Each little arm raised a dagger, all glinting like fangs beneath the watchful eyes of the great skull. _Their father. Guiding them through._

As he watched in slack-jawed horror Gorion remembered one of the warnings Alianna had given, that day four years ago in Silverymoon. _'I beg you, Ion. If you seek me out you will see a side of me that you've always willfully ignored. Best to leave it be.'_

Gorion's fingers kept twitching, watching the altar through the shimmering sphere. Many possible spells had raced through his mind at first; ways that he might stop this. He had dismissed them all. All but one.

That it had come to this.

As the sphere wavered and blinked out of existence Gorion's hand shot forward and he barked out the words as swiftly as he could. Sharp green light formed on his fingertip, and in that instant he remembered the Hunter's Gate and the last embrace he and Alianna had shared.

That had been the bittersweet parting he would have preferred as their last. Not this.

But the spell had left his lips, and with a will of its own the streak of energy leapt from his finger and flew across the chamber, striking Alianna in the side. In less than the blink of an eye her pale skin had burned away as the green fire consumed her body, briefly revealing blackened bones before all became dust and settled upon the altar.

Not the parting he had wished for, but there it was.

But as the children's knives hovered unsteadily in the air and the flames gutted out in the eyes of the skull Gorion had no time let it sink in. All six of the remaining acolytes of Bhaal were angrily chanting now.

Protective words rasped from Gorion's lips, and at the same time the celestial bear interposed itself between its master and the altar. Gouts of flame and bolts of shimmering force tore into the beast, and with a painted cry it dissolved into sparkling fragments, then dust.

The rest of the magical assault passed through but faltered against the spellward Gorion had hastily erected. By then he had pressed his hands together to unleash a counterattack: a bolt of empowered arcane fire that blazed like a star, streaked like comet, and exploded in the midst of the acolytes. Three of them threw their heads back and screamed as their bodies became pillars of fire, and the rest scattered back, magical protections shimmering.

A running battle ensued, Gorion diving for the cover of one of the great statues and exchanging spell after spell with the robed servants of Bhaal; shimmering waves of white anti-magic, snaking bolts of lighting, storms of force, and orbs of quivering air that exploded into deafening sonic blasts all streaked between them. In the din and the fire and the chaos the panicked screams of the children were drowned out, the older three clutching at the little ones and pushing them away from the battle and towards the shelter of a pillar.

A green ray much like the one that had slain Alianna narrowly missed Gorion and turned the feet and lower portion of the nearby statue to dust. With a rumble and a groan it teetered a little and Gorion found himself running for his life, slipping back behind the next bit of cover he could find. He used one of his wands to throw a blast of electricity at the mage who had tried to vaporize him, the bolt sizzling harmlessly off magical protections but carving great cracks into the nearby pillar.

The mage upon the platform scowled and took aim for another spell, but something streaked from the darkness behind him before it was complete. Long white hair waved by, along with a scimitar that cleaved the bhaalite's head cleanly off his shoulders. Gorion caught a glimpse of Lucette, her narrow elven face shooting him a grin and her multihued chaincoat glimmering in the firelight.

Then the view was obscured by the shattered stone of the statue collapsing between them and taking a great deal of the ceiling with it. Gorion turned and shielded his face from the wave of dust and debris that followed. When the sound of falling stone had abated he called up a minor wind-spell to clear the air and looked about frantically.

There was an angry rumble everywhere, stone groaning as more and more pieces of the temple gave way. Disoriented, Gorion guessed at a direction to run and took it. He had a teleportation spell prepared, but he had to at least grab Lucette first. Not to mention-

Passing the broken arm of a statue he came upon a fleeing child, the little boy or girl's hood thrown back and eyes scrunched up, bawling uncontrollably and running blindly. Gorion turned towards the terrified little thing, but before he could close the distance a hewn-off section of pillar dropped right in front of him, forcing him to scramble back.

The child vanished with a blast of dust, screams drowned out by the thunder-crack of the stone striking the floor. A breath later the dust-cloud rushed up and away, revealing a smear of blood and blackened bits that peaked from beneath the pillar and left little doubt as to what had happened.

Gorion's jaw fell and his eyes went wide with horror, sitting on the tiles where he had tumbled backwards. A pang of guilt tightened in his guts as well, stronger than the shock. Before it could overwhelm him he forced himself to his feet.

He had to _do_ something!

Frantically casting his eyes about, he saw little but clouds of debris and falling rock, rumbles and nerve-wracking cracks echoing everywhere. Low sobbing drew his attention, and he rushed around another piece of broken statue, coming upon two much smaller children in dusty robes.

They were toddlers -four at most- and they clung tightly to each other, one with a mop of tangled red hair and a face buried against the shoulder of the other. The second child was not yet crying, but standing still and staring out at nothing, eyes wide with terror and shock.

As Gorion raced towards the children those eyes looked right into his, pale, icy-blue, set in a fair-skinned face and framed by messy black hair.

Alianna's eyes. He recognized them instantly.

Then the child closed those eyes, threw its head back and a tremor went through its face, lips quivering. When Gorion reached them the child was bawling hysterically, and he wrapped his arms around them both, instinctively placing his back and shoulders between the children and the cracking ceiling.

"Gorion!" A thick Tethyrian accent. He looked up to see Jaheira leap a fallen pillar, Khalid's armored form close behind. More crashing all around, and everywhere beyond them was a cloud of dust. "We must escape!" the half-elven woman insisted as she closed the distance.

He simply nodded and produced both hands, his arms encircling the huddled children. His spell would not be able to carry much more weight anyway. Hopefully the others had fled.

When Jaheira and Khalid grasped his hands Gorion took a rough breath and sang out a spell. " _Siltir varak – keev._ " The rumbling suddenly vanished and all around them the world was silent and blank; nothing but countless subtly different shades of brown and grey. Gorion shut his eyes up tight, knowing from experience that to look too closely at that void would strain your vision and make your stomach churn.

A heartbeat later color and sound rushed back in around them, and he opened his eyes to see the billowing brown field waver into the shape of snowcapped trees beneath faint clouds and dusty winter stars. They were outdoors in a clearing, at the meeting spot where they had first planned the assault upon the temple. In the distance the deep voice of an owl ' _whoed,'_ and light, chill wind rustled through the pines.

Khalid turned away and bent over, coughing and gagging. Apparently he had looked while they were shifting. For some reason he always did.

The two children simply continued to sob against Gorion's breast. He shifted his cloak a bit so it encircled them and simply let them cry.

By the time Lucette, Dermin and Meronia had found them the tears had run their course and Jaheira had examined the two children for injuries. They were silent and sullen now, red rimmed eyes staring out at the winter's night as they hugged their shoulders tightly.

Two little girls, one with dark blue eyes, rust-red hair and a Chondathan cast to her big round face. The other looked Damaran, like Alianna, and continued to remind Gorion for all the world of her. It was the eyes mostly. Not baby-blue, but a rare, light shade, and though they were wide with youth and fear there was something _sharp_ about them.

Once again Gorion remembered that last day together; the evening mist that rolled in off the river shrouding the trees beyond the Hunter's Gate. They had not seen each other for over a season prior, and had spent the day quietly walking the city streets and talking of anything and everything _but_ themselves and their current lot in life. Alianna had smiled and laughed at times, though it felt a little forced, and she often looked sickly, at one point growing pale and excusing herself shortly after the midday meal.

When evening had fallen she had led the way to the city gates and finally spoke of what lay between them, though she would not tell him precisely why she had disappeared those months ago and why she was disappearing again.

"We who serve the gods must pay a price for the power they give us. It is simply my time to pay, Ion. And you know what sort of god I serve."

"Of course, but I just wish you'd tell me-"

She had stroked his arm as she interrupted him. "Always so curious." A chuckle. "A scholar and investigator. But really, it's for the best you don't know. There were always things about me you tried to stay willfully ignorant of."

"I don't remember it that way," he had protested. "You know what I said that first time in Calimport. 'I know how dangerous you are. We _need_ someone dangerous for this mission.'"

She had laughed at that, as they walked arm in arm to the gate. "And all those times you shrugged and said: 'The Harpers have always employed assassins.' Good times." She had stopped and turned, looking up into his eyes. "But let's leave it at that please?" Slipping her arms under his, they had shared a last embrace beneath the lintel of the Hunter's Gate.

Gorion's brows had furrowed after a time, noticing the slightly rounded shape of Alianna's belly beneath her loose grey dress. It had been almost imperceivable, but he had known every curve of her body very well. Once. And she had acted nauseous several times that day…

As he had pulled away their eyes had met again. "Alianna…" he had whispered. "Is…is it?"

She had shaken her head and disengaged from him. "It's _not_ your child." A step back. "It's a matter between me and my god. The price I told you of." A wistful look. "You're smart Ion. You'll figure it out. Just do not follow. Trust me, you _don't_ want to see where I'm going." And with that she had turned and began to trudge towards the mists and the trees beyond.

That strange speech had left him baffled at the time; too confused to respond, or to shout at her back and try to stop her. And perhaps a part of him had also been content to let her go. They had been apart for months, and growing distant before that. She seemed to have another man now too -the father of the child- and he had busied himself with other things. Time to let go.

A little research into the church of Bhaal and then into Alaundo's prophesies had cast a new light on Alianna's parting words. It was easy enough to discern who the father of the child had been. More than a little horrifying too. She had been right. He really didn't want to see. Unfortunately the Harpers had other plans.

Kneeling beside the two robed children, Jaheira stroked their hair, whispering calming words. After a time she turned to Gorion and gave him a questioning look. "Her eyes," she observed in a low voice, seeing just what he had, "look just like Alianna's. Is this..?" A probing look now, and a little silence. Then, as was her way, Jaheira just went ahead and said it: "Is this your daughter?"

Gorion shook his head. "Not mine," he said with little emotion, though a deep frown grew on his goateed face, and he gave the two shivering, terrified little girls a ponderous look. In the tendays that were to come he deliberated a lot over what to do with the children, but in truth the decision was made then and there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically disintegrating your mom right in front of you probably disqualifies someone from the title of 'Good father.' But after that I think Gorion put in his best effort.
> 
> And in case you didn't guess: the three older children were indeed Sendai, Balthazar and Sarevok, and the three extra Harpers mentioned appear in Jaheira's Baldur's Gate 2 quest.


	44. Love and Venom

** Part Four – The Adventurers **

_ "Giant spiders. Why does it always have to be giant spiders?"  _ – Xan

* * *

Eleint 4, 1368 D.R.

With a click that seemed to bounce and echo through a hundred-hundred caverns Ashura turned the lock and the floodgates opened. There was no river behind the uncurling steel; no bubbling white froth and dark, heavy water. Instead Ashura saw a brilliant shade of red topped with curdled black just before it struck her.

A tide of blood.

A sticky, thick, rolling wave of black and brown and pink and crimson that knocked her on her back and dragged her along the dirt, pooling and growing as fast as she could find her feet. It swarmed up around her, still warm with fading life, rising to her shoulders. Blood filled the tunnels. Blood filled the mines.

Over her head now.

She could see light shimmering through the churning red, but most of the world around her was darkness. The metallic taste filled her mouth, its crushing weight against and inside her lungs all at once, and she panicked and squirmed as the flood carried her. In her mind's eye she saw the river and the tunnels emptying out into a great ocean.

So much blood. Frothy pink and black, along with that rich, rich red she was intimately familiar with. The red that had splattered across her body in a hundred or more battles. Her lungs felt like they were going to explode, and in the red around her bubbles bobbed and climbed. From them images formed.

Faces.

Gods! It was those faces again. All the ones she had killed. Or seen die. Or let die. Gorion. The bounty hunter at the Friendly Arm. That captive woman in the tent at the spring fair. A bandit. Eddard Silvershield. A proud hobgoblin warrior. Ender Sai. Tranzig. Jaheira. Tazok.

And then there was a stern elven face. A friend; grim, tattooed and resolute. To the end.

Everything around Ashrua was darkening. She was sinking. Sliding down and down into the sticky ocean of blood as Kivan's image hung over her, a sad cast to his features.

Then the image shattered and a hand shot through the bubbles, firm and determined. Ashura reached out and clasped it, and with a great effort the hand tugged and pulled her up and out of the ocean of blood.

Briefly Ashura's face and eyes broke the surface and she took a desperate, raspy breath. There above her was a tanned elven face, marked with dots and lines along his brow and chin. And instead of a sad look he was giving her a reassuring smile.

A wave struck her and she bobbed back beneath the surface, and when she was pulled up again the hand that held her belonged to a new face. Round and always smiling, with deep blue eyes, tanned skin and framed by rust-red hair. With her ears still beneath the surface, Ashura could not hear as Imoan let out a cheer and pulled.

Then the world swam and it was Garrick's straining face pulling her out of the morass with both hands. A flicker of red and it was Coran. Next Xan's pained, grim and determined visage loomed over her, both hands pulling and pulling. And then it was Kivan again.

It didn't matter. It felt now like each and every one of her friends were there, straining and cheering, pulling Ashura inch by inch from the churning ocean of blood.

With a strained gasp she came awake and sat up, sweating and breathing hard. There was a presence beside her already, and a hurried glance revealed Garrick's mousy tangle of brown hair and his reassuring hands grasping her arms. They were in a tent, she realized, sitting beside each other and sharing a bedroll.

"It's okay," he was whispering in her ear.

"Sorry," Ashura said to the darkness. The words came out all croaking, and for some reason her chest was heavy.

"It's okay," he repeated. "One of your dreams."

She cringed. "One of?"

"Yeah. You have them a lot. Remember?"

"Yeah…" she whispered. He was hugging her tight now, and she eased her breath and pressed close. She shut her eyes tight as a few tears wicked through her lashes and against his shirt. There was a heavy feeling in her chest, but after a time she realized it was relief. There was soft breathing all around in the darkened tent; the sound of Imoen and the others sleeping. Her friends were close by: Imoen, Garrick, Coran, and even Xan.

Her friends were close by, and that's what counted.

* * *

At the banks of the river near the shadow of the petrified tree they sat in an uncomfortable silence. Above them orange and golden leaves shivered in the breeze, still warm with the last breaths of summer. From time to time Imoen would lift and toss a stone, easily skipping them across the surface of the water.

Xan just stared ahead, sullen and silent. A day prior the liberated slaves had marched off into the forest, led by the dwarf and carrying what supplies they could wrangle from the circle of savage druids, along with a large sum of gems and gold coins that Imoen had slipped them. She had stolen the treasure from the slaver's horde, and hopefully it was enough for the refugees to start new lives. The party was staying with the druid circle for a few more days while they (and especially Shar-Teel,) recovered from their wounds.

Eventually, when she could take no more silence, Imoen spoke up. "He reminded you of your partner, right?"

"Huh?"

"The Greycloak you lost in the mines. I think you said his name was Lathal? 'A skilled tracker and scout,' you told me once. Though you haven't talked about him much. Bet he was the strong, silent type too. Just like Kivan."

A wistful smile peaked at the edges of Xan's mouth. "Not really, no. Lathal was actually quite bright. Quick and sunny. More like Coran than Kivan, but far less of an obnoxious bore."

A long pause. "You two were lovers weren't you?" She had kind of guessed that a while back but…

"That we were." He nodded, and said it as if it were no secret.

Imoen cast her eyes down on the water. _Dern it. I have the worst luck! I just knew it but…_

Slender elven fingers entwined with hers and gave her hand a surprisingly firm squeeze. "So I suppose I saw quite a bit of _myself_ in Kivan. We were both broken and grieving. But I think now he is at peace. Hopefully in the forests of Arvandor with his Deheriana." Another squeeze of his hand. "And I am happy to be here with…well, with the sunny optimist who has helped me through some of the most trying times of my life. There is nowhere else I would rather be."

"Same…same here," Imoen whispered, choking back tears. She rested her head against his shoulder and they sat in comfortable silence for a time.

"Imoen?" he asked after several long, quiet minutes.

"Yup?"

"We have solved the Iron Crisis, you know. Enough for my superiors satisfaction at least, once we report the conspiracy of this Iron Throne cartel to the authorities in Baldur's Gate. Iron is flowing from the Nashkel mine, the roads are safe from bandits and this plan to monopolize the markets that the slaver's apprentice told us of before…" A cough. "…the unfortunate incident is quashed. Evereska has its iron, and I am sure the Flaming Fist can take it from here."

"Yeah," she muttered, a little wary of the direction he was taking. So much for being the sunny optimist. "So you'll be heading back to Evereska?"

"I do not…strictly need to. I have a degree of autonomy, and I can inform my superiors of everything through the scrying mirror. After that, well…" A deep breath. "I should really prefer to continue traveling with you. If you and Ashura will-"

"Bah! Bah! Bah!" She gave him three playful punches on the shoulder with each word. "Ya had me going there! That was mean!" Xan gave her a puzzled look and she responded with a hug and a big wet kiss on the cheek. "Of course I want you to travel with us. 'Nowhere else I'd rather be,' like ya said." She smiled. "And anyway you'd be doomed without me."

* * *

Light rain had been blowing in off the nearby sea all day, cool and steady, forcing the travelers to huddle beneath their cloaks and making Ashura regret that she hadn't found a replacement for the one that had burned. Burned along with a good portion of her hair, which was now cut shorter; face-framing rather than hanging down to her back.

For a time she walked with hunched shoulders, hugging herself a bit as her shortened, damp hair clung to her face, but soon Coran slipped in beside her and stretched an arm out. Half of his long green cloak fell over her back and shoulders, then the elf's arm slid down between them.

"Thanks," Ashura muttered, adjusting the shared fabric and huddling beneath it. She glanced up and over at the elf's face, half-hidden by his hood, but he just nodded a little and actually managed to _not_ give her a lecherous grin. A few steps along the muddy path and she looked back towards Garrick, wondering if she'd catch a hint of jealousy.

The bard wore one of his easy smiles, bent forward a bit as he carried the big barrel they were keeping the wyvern's heads in across his back. Their eyes met and his smile brightened.

_ Good.  _ The companions walked along in the drizzle and comfortable silence.

Perhaps half an hour of travel went by like that before Shar-Teel spoke up. "So," she announced, sparing Xan a glance, "the geas has worn off hasn't it?"

Xan's lips tightened and he said nothing, fingers lingering near the hilt of his moonblade.

With a glare Shar-Teel drew a few inches of her own sword's steel from its sheath. "Just fucking tell me so I don't have to test it!" She demanded of the elf. "I'd hate to ruin those pretty purple robes of yours."

"The geas has worn off, yes," Xan stated.

"And the man who dueled me is long dead besides."

"I could duel you," Ashura offered with a slight smirk. Shar-Teel was constantly bragging, and she had wanted to test those boasts for some time.

But Shar-Teel shook her head. "I don't duel women. It's a firm rule of mine. Anyway, that's not what I'm getting at."

"Then what?" Ashura asked.

"Just seems like a fine time to renegotiate my contract. Noticed you looted quite a bit of gold, gems and magical knick-knacks from the mines. Am I getting a full share of it?"

Ashura chuckled and shrugged. "Of course. Hells, we followed a trail of your dead through the clanhold. Not like you didn't earn a share."

"Good. Then as long as we're following a strong woman leader and I get my share of the booty." She did a quick headcount. "Say…an eighth? Then I'll stick. I want some of those potions too."

"Well, sure."

"Maybe the strength potion?" Imoen suggested. "Cause I'm totally keeping this exploding one!"

Shar-Teel shrugged. "That works. Oh, and," she shot Xan a glare. "No more charm spells on me. Got it?"

"Charming _you_ is the farthest thing from my mind Shar-Teel," Xan drawled. "Trust me."

"Ha!"

Their warband had shrunk quite a bit since the mines, with Yeslick and the refugees marching ahead and Faldorn returning to the druids. They were down to eight now, still more than the 'ideal' six adventurers that Ribald described in his _Guide to Dungeoneering_. Ashura had never quite understood the logic of that. Didn't having more soldiers naturally give you an edge?

The rain had lifted by the time the sun had slipped beneath the trees, and they searched out a good campsite under wisps of pink cloud smeared across the pale blue. "We could at least spar," Ashura suggested with a sideways look at Shar-Teel, sometime later as they worked at raising a tent. "Unless you have some weird rule against that."

The older woman snorted. "Of course not. Used to spar most mornings with my captain." A chuckle. "When she wasn't hungover."

"Your captain?"

"A mercenary captain. Yesna." She didn't elaborate, instead glaring at the tent-spike that she was tapping into the earth with a stone. Ashura pulled at her own side of the fabric and worked at nailing down a spike, a little curious but deciding not to pry.

"But sure," Shar-Teel muttered after a time. "We can spar in the morning. If you'd really like to test my mettle. Guess that's the sort of thing fearless leaders like to do huh?"

"Something like that." Ashura gave her a slight grin, followed by a shrug. "Always sparred with all the watchers…uh." Shar-Teel was giving her a blank look. "The guards. In the fortress where I grew up. Just seems like you can't have too much practice."

Shar-Teel actually pursed her lips in thought briefly. "True really. 'Better and easier to learn from bruises than opened guts.' Yesna said that once. Of course play-fighting just isn't a tenth as satisfying as the real thing. I mean: standing on even ground and giving some sod a tap so a referee can say: 'A point for Shar-Teel?' Bah! No fun at all."

She shook her head in disgust, then went on. "Now, forcing some arrogant pig to overreach and then slipping the dueling-dagger right into the bastard's eye! That's a real fight!" She looked off. "Seeing the look in his good eye go through the shock, horror and pain, fool-mouth hanging open when he was sneering just a moment before. Now there's the stuff!" There was a faraway look in Shar-Teel's eyes and a fierce grin on her face. Ashura found that her own eyes had widened a bit too, and she forced them to narrow.

"One of the reasons I prefer to fight men. That puffed up arrogance the fighting ones always have. There's just nothing like watching it deflate, preferably while I'm making other parts of them deflate and bleed profusely. Ha!" She noticed the silence and looked over at Ashura. "What? You've killed plenty of men right?" The grin grew larger and her teeth showed. "Or are you going to give me one of those snooty 'I take no pleasure in killing' speeches?"

_ She's fucking with me _ , Ashura decided. She forced her face to remain stony and shrugged. "Used to empty slop buckets as one of my morning chores back home. It's about like that now. So no pleasure, no."

Posturing, but there was some honesty in the answer too. Killing had never given her any particular joy beyond a relief, in these past few months spent fighting for her life. No particular guilt either. And if they were going to be posturing then it was best not to mention the absolute, breathless, bowel-clenching terror that accompanied most battles.

"Bah," was all Shar-Teel said for a moment. "You should take more pride in your craft."

Soon their pair of round oilskin tents was standing and a small fire was crackling and sending a faint trail of smoke up towards the darkened sky. There was nothing to roast over the flames tonight; it was simply a place to gather as they enjoyed a little dried meat and nuts, passing around a jar of spiced and soured cabbage someone had snagged from the clanhold kitchen, along with the last of the wine and flatbread. A place to warm their hands as well, and maybe seek some entertainment.

"So don't you know some sagas?" Imoen prodded Eldoth. "Always heard those were a big deal in Ruathym. 'The epic tradition of the skalds' and all that."

Eldoth grinned at the flames and let out a smug little grunt. "Not my preferred way to entertain, I must admit. Always so…blustery."

"Think I know a saga or two," Garrick spoke up with a friendly smile. "They had us practice a few in Berdusk."

"Well aren't you eager," Eldoth said in a sarcastic tone. "By all means, entertain us."

Garrick had reached for his harp, then a tentative look grew on his face. "Well, can't say I know more than the overview of a few Rus sagas. I mean, who can memorize all those names?"

"My thoughts on the subject as well," Eldoth said with a chuckle. "One of the many reasons you find me here in the south, performing the simple and elegant ballads I've picked up along the road. Lute and song is far preferable to lyre and verse, I say. And the local maids prefer a good ballad over an epic history lesson about 'Skiore, son of Skad' or whatever it was."

"Well?" Imoen asked. "Then why don't we hear one of those huh?"

Eldoth took his time chewing the morsel of bread he had been eating before he responded. "Perhaps I've no pressing need to make you swoon? And besides, I'd hate to get crumbs on my lute."

"Aww. Garrick never turns down a request."

"That does not surprise me," Eldoth said, a mischievous glint in his hooded eyes. "The little fellow seems quite eager to please." With that he took another bite of bread.

Garrick silently frowned at his harp as they sat in a brief and awkward silence until Ashura tapped him on the shoulder. "Know any of _Helgid and the Seven Dragons_?" It was one of a half dozen sagas from Ruathym that she had read as a child, and probably the most famous.

Garrick's eyes brightened a bit. "Oh yeah. That's considered a classic." He plucked a few cords from his harp after a moment's thought, and recalled the opening few verses of the epic poem, reciting them over some musical flourishes. From there he made things up as he went along, Imoen and Coran encouraging him as the story unfolded. He put together an interesting tale, though Ashura was sad that he seemed to forget the part about Lady Alfra being a shapeshifted dragon in disguise. Not her favorite part (that would of course be the scene with the dragon Sijek and the anchor chain,) but it was a nice little plot twist.

For his part Eldoth stifled a few dramatic and very deliberate yawns throughout the performance.

* * *

"Can't wait to get out of this damn forest," Ashura muttered, wary eyes on the strands and gobs of spider's web that stretched from one golden bough to the next. They had been trudging for some time across the mossy forest floor, following Coran's best guess at a path, and the webbing had only grown thicker and thicker.

Soon those branches were rustling as well, and Ashura's eyes shot up when there was a scraping sound above. Then chittering.

Silently the companions turned, weapons drawn as they formed an outward-facing circle. "Of course there would be more spiders," Xan stated glumly, standing in a protected spot in the center of the circle beside Viconia. A moment later the forest grew silent.

Then, in an explosion of movement, the spiders came pouring out, racing down tree trunks and along the forest floor. They came in a multitude of colors, shapes and sizes, some small as a hand and others large as a pony; red, black, grey and green.

Bowstrings hummed and then the swarm was upon them. Ashura found herself dancing and dodging away from long legs that bristled with spines as they lashed forward, the air hissing with each stroke and lunge. _A sword spider_ , some calm part of her recalled, the name remembered from an old bestiary. Sadly she didn't recall any weaknesses mentioned.

It was something like a duel, right down to the moment that she managed to stomp down on one foreleg, pin the other back with her righthand sword and stab the lefthand blade between eight blinking eyes. The sword spider skittered back and rolled over, every limb twitching.

Xan had been chanting something behind her, but as his spell reached a crescendo it turned into a pained cry. Whirling around, Ashura saw that the elf had crumpled to the ground, a man-sized spider with a thorax and abdomen covered in tropical green and yellow looming over him. She lunged, swords first, but before she could reach the creature it crawled backwards, a shimmer growing behind it as it held Xan's prone form between its forelegs.

In a blink of blue-white light both elf and spider vanished. There was a corresponding flash perhaps a hundred paces away, near some sort of round structure shrouded in white webbing.

* * *

There had been something terribly sharp in his shoulder, but now all was numb. Even the banging of Xan's head against the grassy earth as he was dragged along barely registered. He knew that his fingers were clinched around the hilt of his moonblade, but try as he might he could not make the weapon budge; every muscle was locked into place. His body was stiff as a board as he was dragged and smacked against the ground again and again, carried along by the massive thing that loomed above him.

He wanted to strike it, but his limbs rebelled. Wanted to shout out a spell, but his tongue was thick as leather; heavy as lead. Sliding along on his back, he slipped beneath some sort of overhang, and the world darkened considerably. The spider threw him forward haphazardly, and sent him rolling across a strange, hardened white surface.

When he grew still Xan found himself lying on his side, still paralyzed to such an extent that he could barely even shift his eyes. So paralyzed that it was a struggle simply to breathe. There was thick white webbing everywhere and great blurry shapes hanging between the billowing threads. Webbing everywhere, save a patch of ugly bare earth where a strange human sat.

Human was his first thought at least; an obese, nude woman with a mop of tangled black hair and mottled, filthy skin. Looking into her eyes changed that impression though. There were no irises or pupils, only a diseased shade of yellow that shimmered with a light all its own. The eyes of some sort of fey monster, perhaps a hag. The fact that her mouth opened far wider than any human's had a right to only added to that impression.

"You bring meat then?!" she bellowed towards the spider. "Good my children! Good! To the lauder with it!"

_ So this is what my doom looks like _ .

* * *

"Xan!" Imoen screamed, eyes following where the spider and her friend had appeared just before they slipped into some sort of strange domed structure. Without a backwards glance she took off running straight for it.

Stomping heavily on one of the smaller spiders, Ashura followed. She soon overtook the slightly shorter girl, and side by side they plunged past and over strands of web, sprinting towards the strange brown dome. _It's made of woven silk_ , she realized as she drew near. _A massive cocoon._

Ominous, but there was no choice. Together she and Imoen plunged through a ragged opening. _I am_ not _losing another friend today_.

They pulled up short the moment they were through, blinking and trying to adjust to the dim light and at the same time desperately searching for any sign of Xan or the green spider. No purple robe to be seen at first, but a strange sight greeted them beneath the great dome.

Strands of thick webbing that seemed to be calcified covered the walls and dipped down towards the floor of the chamber, and on the hard-packed dirt where it all sloped to there was a massive blob of vaguely human flesh. It seemed to be female, with mottled pinkish skin and empty, glowing eyes. Some sort of hag, Ashura guessed.

A crazed look came over the woman as she spied the intruders, and she raised wobbly arms towards the ceiling. "More meat!" she cackled, froth flying from her mouth as her eyes flashed. "More meat for my children!" Everywhere there was tittering, and Ashura's eyes widened as they shifted upwards.

Dozens of giant spiders danced across the ceiling, countless legs clicking and clattering as they raced down the walls or descended on silken cords. "Uh…" Ashura muttered, clutching her swords. This suddenly felt like a _really_ bad idea.

She glanced over at Imoen, who looked strangely unperturbed. The girl had dropped her bow and reached for her belt, slipping a small red jar out from a pouch. A quick, violent shake, and then Imoen's arm went back, twisting a little. Another twist and she hurled the jar towards the hag with all her strength.

Recognizing the potion from Davaeorn's treasury, Ashura took an instinctive step back. The massive hag simply continued to gesture with her arms, calling the swarm of spiders down and howling the word 'Meat!' right up until the jar finished its arc and struck her directly in the forehead.

There was an understated _pop_ and a burst of pink accompanied by bright flashes of fire that had Ashura turning and covering her head. A deafening roar followed and a hot wave buffeted her and Imoen. Something limp struck Ashura in the shoulder, and as she turned her head she saw that the object was covered in chitin and leaking black gunk; a severed spider's limb.

More legs and other bits of spider followed, flying from the blast-spot or raining down from the ceiling, along with ichor, blood, blackened bits of bone and slimy gobs of what Ashura guessed were the hag's innards. A cloud of smoke was slowly rising from the center of the chamber now, hanging over a great blackened smear and wisps of burnt webbing.

As soon as it was clear enough to see, Imoen picked up her bow and plunged forward, heedless of what she was stepping on or through. At the far end of the chamber they caught sight of the green-and-yellow spider they had been chasing, and as it turned from Xan's prone body the creature caught an arrow in the head from Imoen, followed swiftly by a fierce downward stab of Ashura's swords.

Ashura kicked the convulsing thing off her blades before turning to her friend, who had knelt down beside the unconscious elf. His ankles and legs were wrapped up in soft white silk, likely the beginnings of what would have been a cocoon. Veins were bulging, blue and prominent on his swollen face, and his skin was cherry-red, eyelids swollen shut.

"Oh gods!" Imoen screeched. "I don't think he's breathing!"

She had stretched the elf out on the floor now, eyes full of tears as she looked around frantically. There was a healing potion in her hand, but how could he drink it if he couldn't even breathe? And neither of them had any sort of antidote. A sob running through her, Imoen dropped the potion and put her fists together, desperately pressing them against Xan's still chest.

Scrunching her shoulders, Imoen pumped with her fists, shuddering with each motion. "Come on Xan! Breathe! Breathe!" It was a resuscitation technique the monks had taught them long ago, but as Ashura knelt down beside her friend and fumbled through her own collection of potions she shook her head.

Paralytic poison was what had seized up the elf's throat and stolen his breath. They needed curing magic and they needed it fast. "Viconia!" Ashura shouted, looking back through the smoky chamber. No sign of their companions yet. The pair of them had hurried well ahead of the rest. She shouted again anyway. "Viconia!"

Imoen was beside herself now, sobbing and shuddering, heedless of the snot running from her nose. "Please Xan! Please!"

Looking over at them Ashura cringed. There was a growing purple cast to the elf's face now. Another dead friend, left along the road. So many now. And once again she was standing by, helplessly watching. Her fists were balled tightly, fury building in her tightening chest.

"No. No. Please no." Imoen pressed her face against Xan's unmoving chest.

Blue-white light flared in the darkened chamber. The ghostfire-flames leapt between Ashura's clinched fingers, giving vent to her frustration, and without thinking she grabbed Imeon's shoulder with her other hand and roughly shoved her off of Xan. With a growl Ashura brought her glowing hand down upon the elf's chest and opened her fist, setting the fire free.

Necromancy. The power of a death god. A strange weapon to use under these circumstances, but it was all she had. And if it really was divine power, then maybe…

"Gahhhh!" Xan's whole body arched, head tilted back, and he let out a long croaking gasp. A great stream of faintly glowing vapor flew from his lips and nostrils as he did, rising in a cloud that hovered briefly above him. Growing slack, the elf sank back down, gulping in ragged, desperate breaths.

Briefly Ashura thought she saw something in the shifting cloud of venom. A grinning skull. Tears. Then it dissipated, expanding and vanishing before her. The glow faded as well, and they were left in the darkness.

Ashura let out a relieved sigh and placed a hand upon Xan's brow. He rose and fell again and again, breaths gradually growing more and more even. Beside her Imoen squeezed the elf's shoulder, still shuddering as more tears followed worn trails down her filth-caked face. At least now they were tears of relief.

After a time the Greycloak managed to let out a groan, flat on his back in his stained robes. They were torn and bloody at his shoulder where the spider had bitten him, and bits of sticky webbing cling to his clothes.

"My wounds are…are…grave," Xan breathed weakly. "I…"

"Pish!" Imoen managed, voice quaking as she uncorked the healing potion. "No they're not, silly." She guided the glass vial to his lips. "Yer gonna be just fine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sappy chapter revolving around the power of friendship? This story sure takes some odd turns.


	45. North and South

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some brief sexual content in the middle of this chapter. Blink and you might miss it, but I thought it warranted a warning.

_ "It's bad enough that elves live four times longer than humans, but the fact that they don't need to sleep just adds insult to injury." _ \- Petra Bladewright, _A Mercenary's Guide to Diplomacy_

* * *

The Friendly Arm Inn was less crowded than Ashura had ever seen it; the great feast hall of the keep cavernous and empty with a mere dozen or so midday patrons scattered throughout. They were the usual sorts she had seen here the last time. A few clumps of aged men with greasy hair and worn clothes who were obviously tavern regulars, some traveling peddlers, and a little group of young, local girls chatting and enjoying their highbite together.

One patron stood out from the rest. He was armored in enabled splints of plate, and he was probably the broadest man Ashura had ever seen who wasn't an outright ogre. Thick with muscle;, his skin pale as bone, and the man's face was flat and bestial. Old, raised scars crisscrossed that face above prominent tusks. Pointed ears peaked from his long, shaggy hair, several rings running up from lobe to peak.

An orc (or half-orc maybe? She was never clear on how you told the difference.) He was slouching forward at a table close to the center of the room, and the other patrons were giving him as wide a berth as possible.

Taking the dining hall in with a smile and a glance, Imoen turned to Ashura. "Wow. So the roads must be safe to travel now. You think _we_ did that?"

"Sure seemed like we killed ever bandit in the bloody world," Ashura muttered as they made their way past the empty tables. "Might just be the fact that ankheg mating season is over though." Tavern gossip had made a big deal about the ankhegs the last time they had been here. Few people dared travel the north road when there was a risk of giant, acid-spitting insects popping up along the way.

"Hmph. Well, I'd like to think that our heroic actions have freed up the roads. And maybe freed up some rooms here too!"

Ashura smiled at that, entertaining the notion that they might finally enjoy the luxury of separate rooms. They could certainly afford it now. Sadly, Bentley Mirrorshade quashed that hope when they spoke with him. Apparently some traveling noble and his entourage (Bentley claimed the man was so wealthy he wore 'golden underpants,') had rented a good portion of the upper floor, and there were only three bedrooms left available.

Three rooms, six beds and eight people led to a little awkward math and negotiations, as usual. Still, it wasn't nearly as bad as the time Ashura, Imoen, Jaheira and Khalid had all been packed into one bed in the shabby Nashkel inn.

"The couples could share beds…"

"And which 'couples' are those _abbil_?"

"Well, I'm _not_ sharing a room with any of these pigs. Especially that one."

"His stench is somewhat unnerving, I agree."

"Worry not on that account. Though I've bedded wenches near as ugly as you, there was a great deal of coin involved."

"Say another word Eldoth, and I'll cut out your tongue!"

The northerner looked like he was about to speak, but a glare from Ashura and a growled "Don't..." shut him up for the moment. "Its midday," she pointed out, glowering down at the tabletop. "There's plenty of time to figure out sleeping arrangements. Maybe after we wash off unnerving stenches at the baths?"

"I don't think the rank smell of entitled arrogance washes off so cleanly," Xan observed.

Ashura shrugged. "Dunno. They've got quite a sauna."

"Yeah," Imoen added with a smirk. "Maybe Eldoth can sweat all that arrogance out. Even if we have to stick him in there till he turns into a prune."

"Well, I can free up a bed, at least," Coran offered with a smile.

"Pretty sure I've seen you get rejected by every serving girl here last time," Imoen pointed out with a skeptical look.

The elf chuckled. "Actually I was thinking of an early ride. The wyvern heads aren't going to get anymore sweet-smelling."

They had discussed that earlier, on the way to the inn. There was a pressing need to make the journey north to Baldur's Gate and inform the authorities there of all that had transpired in the Cloakwood, along with a need to deliver the heads of the two wyverns to Beregost before they rotted any more. North or south, a few days journey either way, and here they were at the Friendly Arm with several able horses stabled.

Coran had immediately volunteered to make the journey south and deliver the trophies, then catch up with the group carrying the bounty. It made sense. He needed little rest, and could ride at night just as well as day. Of course…

"Eager to steal that bounty money, eh?" Shar-Teel asked with a glare across the table.

"Like I said," Coran replied, raising open hands, "you're more than welcome to ride with me to Beregost. The road is always better shared, especially with a lovely lady such as yourself."

Shar-Teel gave him a long, silent glare, her lips tight and a bit upturned. "There is _no_ way I would travel anywhere with only you for company."

"A pity. I've enjoyed our time together, scant as it's been. Still think we could grow to-"

"Bah!" Shar-Teel cut him off with a snarl.

"Well, Garrick could come along with us," he offered, changing tack and pointing towards the bar, where the young bard was talking with the innkeep. "I don't think he has any pressing business in the Gate."

Shar-Teel shook her head sharply. "That sounds even worse than traveling with just you. You'd probably both insist on singing the whole damn way."

Garrick had turned towards their table now, threading his way past empty stools as he carried a long tray that wobbled a bit in his hands. There were several steaming bowls of stew balanced upon it. Ashura climbed to her feet and walked over to give the poor lad a hand just as he neared the table of the pale, orcish patron.

As Garrick passed by, the orc (or half-orc?) shifted a bit and the bard's hip bumped against a bulky elbow. Narrow, smoldering eyes turned towards Garrick, who immediately froze and cringed beneath the gaze.

"Excuse me…" Garrick squeaked.

The orc shrugged. His voice rumbled out, low and deep. "Excused I guess. But how about you make yourself useful and bring me a flagon of ale? I'm almost out."

"Uh, I'm not a server," Garrick stammered.

"You look the part," the orc muttered. Then he growled: "So why do you waste my time?" He nearly turned away, then cocked his head slightly, a little amusement flashing in those tiny eyes. They flicked up and down appraisingly. "Or are you one of the local bed-warmers? You're pretty enough, but you should know that I am _not_ paying."

Garrick's eyes went wide and he took a step back. "I'm not that either!"

"Then be gone," the orc rumbled, turning back to his nearly empty drink.

Garrick was happy to do just that, stamping by as Ashura walked over and helped steady the tray of food. "How rude!" the young man grumbled, his face an entertaining shade of red. Ashura just chuckled and helped him deliver their midday meal.

"That's it," Garrick added as they placed the tray down on the table. "So sick of all this 'pretty boy' this and 'pretty boy' that! I'm growing a beard!"

"No you're not," Ashura simply stated, placing a hand against his smooth cheek.

"I'm not?"

"Nope."

* * *

Fading streaks of bruised purple hung in the dimming sky above as the guards began to light the evening torches. Coran struggled past them with the wooden barrel, making his way through the open courtyard. When Ashura slipped in beside him he gave her a relieved smile, and together they lifted the heavy, foul-smelling container and carried it the rest of the way to the stables with ease. Coran's horse awaited him there, a sleek hackney mare; rusty brown with mottled white spots.

Music wafted down from the windows of the keep. A little earlier Garrick had volunteered to perform for the taproom, and Eldoth had surprised them all by joining in, his rich baritone matching Garrick's boyish tenor. The pace had picked up quite a bit since then, and now it sounded as if lute and harp were dueling.

"Thanks for the assistance," Coran said through his toothy smile. "Who would have thought a pair of wyvern heads would be so heavy?"

Ashura shrugged. "It's not so bad."

"Ah, have I ever told you how I admire a woman who's stronger than I? Fierce and overpower-"

"You haven't, but I've heard you use that exact line on Shar-Teel." She smirked. "Just before she challenged you to a duel."

"Alas, I suppose you're about to do the same?" He took a deep, dramatic breath, then wrinkled his nose a bit at the stench wafting from the nearby barrel. Doing his best to recover and smile, he added: "Well, I'll at least have fond memories of that single kiss we shared. You remember? Just before we were cruelly separated and that singer of yours deftly stole your heart."

"Garrick's never 'deftly stolen' anything in his life. And he's not my mine."

Coran took a step forward, his smile growing, just as dramatic and overdone as the previous sigh. "Well! Those words certainly give me hope." He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Perhaps one day…"

Her eyes rolled as she stepped past him, placing her hands on the barrel. "You find the most romantic moments." She flared her nostrils for emphases.

Bending down and hugging the barrel, Ashura easily lifted it up. Coran slipped in to help, and together they managed to lay the thing across the horse's back, just behind the saddle, adjusting straps and the position of the load so that the horse could carry rider and barrel with ease.

They both stepped back a bit once the job was done. "Twilight seems an odd time to start a journey," Ashura observed.

"Ah, but there's nothing like an invigorating night-ride," Coran replied, the usual twinkle in his eyes. "Best on a winter's night of course, when the stars are crisp and clear. Though Selune should be out and bright tonight."

"Guess it helps when you can see in the dark. And don't really need sleep the way us humans do."

"Aye. And best to drop these trophies off before they grow any…riper."

"So is this really the last we'll see of you?" she asked with a grin.

An almost genuine frown crept across his face as he placed a hand over his heart. "You wound me. Run away with the bounty gold? Never!"

"It's the roguish thing to do," Ashura noted, still grinning and placing a fingertip against one of Coran's tattooed cheekbones. "And you wear that mask so proudly."

"True, but I would never steal from my friends. You should know me well enough by now." He cocked his head. "Although…"

She raised a brow.

"The road is a dangerous place, even after all we've done. Through no fault of my own this could be our last parting. Our last desperate chance to seek something to remember each other by, beneath these solid walls and the stars above."

She just gave him an even, incredulous look. _Well isn't this familiar. Though last time he was wearing a towel, and the air smelled a little better._

"Or better still," he added, "you could ride with me to Beregost. Informing the authorities is really more of Xan's thing isn't it? You prefer the thrills of the road, and coin, I know. And other thrills perhaps?"

"Tempting." _Not really._ "But I want to see the city, now that we have an excuse."

"Alas, I am doomed to a lonely journey then." He paused a moment. "Once I've collected the bounty and ridden back you can find me in the Elfsong Tavern. It's the first stop for wary travelers in the Gate, and for a number of reasons. Lovely place, especially when the spirit that haunts it feels inclined to sing."

She shrugged. "Won't blame you if you run off with the gold."

A merry laugh. "My lady, you can't get rid of me that easily."

"Suppose not." Placing her hands on his shoulders she added: "Good luck on the road." She leaned forward and planted a kiss on his cheek. "The Elfsong then?"

"Of course."

A voice piped up behind Ashura. "Well, _I_ think since he's going through all the trouble," Imoen announced, "he should pocket a slightly larger share of the bounty. No one has to tell Shar-Teel."

Ashura chuckled. "Fine by me."

"He could spend it with one of those lovely ladies you see outside of Feldpost's," Imoen suggested, sauntering in beside her friend and putting one hand on Ashura's shoulder and the other on Coran's. "You weren't gonna' sneak off without saying goodbye to me where ya?"

"Well," Coran mused, cocking his head, "sneaking off like a thief in the night certainly is my style. Having stolen the heart of a young maid, preferably. The pining that follows is more dramatic that way."

"Sure. Sure."

"But I'm glad you're here to see me off-" he added, followed by an 'Oof!' as Imoen leapt forward, pulling the elf down with a heavy hug. Recovering his balance, he patted her on the shoulder, smiling. "You could always come with me, you know. Sad that everyone's rejected the offer so far."

"Aww." Imoen pulled back and smiled up into the elf's eyes. "I'd really like to, but me and Xan seem to have a 'mission' to complete. Think he'd fall apart without me."

"That he would," Coran replied with a sly grin. "I've noticed."

"And I _really_ want to see the big city! Been waiting for a chance since I was a kid!" She stood up on her toes and gave him a kiss on the same cheek Ashura had. "Hope ya understand."

"I do, I guess." A wistful look. "So I suppose a kiss on the cheek from two fair ladies is all I'll have to remember you by on my long, long journey?"

"Yup. Unless you want a ribbon or something."

"That's alright."

"'Til we see ya at the Elfsong Tavern in a few days then. Alright?" Imoen gave his shoulders a squeeze.

"Until then." With that he turned and leapt atop his horse, so gracefully and feather-light that the mount hardly seemed to notice. "Until the Elfsong," Coran added, turning the mare with a gentle tug and leading it into a trot towards the yawning gate.

"Think we'll actually see him again?" Imoen asked Ashura once he was out of earshot.

"No doubt," she replied. "The old saying ' _Shows up like a bad rash_ ' comes to mind."

* * *

It was late but not _that_ late when Imoen climbed the stairway in search of her room. The long days of hiking and short, uncomfortable nights sleeping on the ground had left her more tired than she realized, and not terribly inclined to stay up any longer, throwing back ales with Ashura, Shar-Teel and a bleary-eyed Garrick.

_ Second room on the left, third floor _ . She was pretty sure that's what Bently had said when he had handed over the key, now in Viconia's possession. It seemed they were destined to always be roomates, at least as long as the drow kept insisting.

Imoen had no problem with that though. Viconia didn't snore or hog the covers, and tonight they'd have separate beds besides. The drow had also kept a respectful distance after the one little incident the first time they had shared a room, while still being quite pleasant to talk to. Imoen had spent many a late night teaching her roommate new words in Chondathan and Thorassta, and even learning a little drow.

Unlike most inns, each story of the Friendly Arm sported a large sitting room instead of narrow halls, the bedrooms branching out from the open chamber. Colorful rugs lined much of the floor, where stuffed chairs and sofas sat and circled polished wooden tea-tables. Elaborate tapestries hung from most of the walls, no doubt meant to keep the noise down if the sitting room grew crowded.

Slipping past the chairs, Imoen found the bedroom. The door was closed, but when she turned the brass knob it swung open easily enough. Her heart leapt to her throat the moment she got a view of the bedroom, and she stifled a gasp, leaning back.

The earful struck her at about the same time as the eyeful; deep, baritone groans accompanied by high, throaty gasps in an unmistakable accent. A slender ebony body lay across the sheets, head and shoulders over the edge of the bed and silky white hair hanging down to the floor, swishing in time with the enthusiastic thrusts of the muscular, Illuskan man atop her. There was a honey-tan tone to the man's bare skin along with a healthy amount of coarse, dark hair; a contrast to the drow's; smooth and black as night.

It was a position Imoen recalled quite well from one of the illustrated manuals in the secret room at Candlekeep. The 'Plowman,' she believed it was called. Thankfully both lovers had their eyes shut tightly, heads thrown back in opposite directions.

The door slid shut and Imoen turned away, closing her eyes and shaking her head. _Ugh. Of course. I should have known. Should have knocked too._ She stalked away from the door and back through the sitting room. _And they could have at least locked the door!_

"Bleck!" Imoen muttered to herself. _She totally did that on purpose didn't she?_ She recalling one of their recent conversations on the forest trail, when Viconia had chided her for being 'prudish' and suggested that she needed a skilled tutor. 'The tall, dark haired male would be perfect. He has surprisingly refined skill for one so full of himself. Reminds me of a male who once served my house. Naturally that one grew too ambitious and had to be eliminated, but the ways of your people are different. Perhaps we'll never need to kill him.'

_ Bah. And humbug too!  _ Well, she was _not_ going back to that room anytime soon. Imoen shuffled aimlessly across the carpet, then down the stairs, eventually finding herself in front of another of the bedrooms they had rented.

Very deliberately, she knocked on the door. "Yes?" Xan's high, nasal voice asked.

"Can I come in?"

"If you want." His tone wasn't exactly encouraging, but she pushed her way through the doorway anyhow. The Greycloak was perched on the edge of a bed, a few pieces of parchment spread out around him and a tome in his lap. She recognized his spellbook from the familiar golden scrollwork. When his weary eyes looked up from the pages to Imoen, Xan added: "You need not ask, you know."

"Sure I do," she said with a sly chuckle as she approached. "I mean, what if you and Garrick had been up to something scandalous?" Ostensibly Garrick, Xan and Eldoth were supposed to be sharing this room, though neither bard was around yet, and since he did not actually need a bed it was a comfortable enough arrangement for Xan.

The look the elf gave her was completely clueless for a moment, then his eyes sharpened with annoyance before looking away.

"Ulp!" Imoen muttered, plopping down on the bed beside the elf. "Sorry."

Lifting his spellbook so that his nose was tucked into it, Xan grumbled: "People always make these uncomfortable assumptions. Just because I've had the occasion to bed another man I must wish to chase after them all or…" He fumbled a little for words, whispering something in elven that she didn't not quite follow.

Imoen gave him a pat on the shoulder. "Alright, alright." She paused and pursed her lips. "Although…wait a minute. You can't honestly expect me _not_ to make bawdy jokes about literally everyone. It's what I do!"

A sigh, though it didn't sound entirely grumpy. "I suppose so."

The book lowered slightly and Imoen leaned in and peaked over Xan's shoulder.

"Oh! I know that one! Or at least I've heard the words spoken a billion times. ' _Umbriel vistias quiel_.' Heck, half of those billion times involved you tapping me on the shoulder while you spoke the words."

"You of course know enough of the weave to realize that being able to _recite_ those words and _knowing_ the spell are completely separate things?"

"Well yeah. Though…" She crinkled her eyebrows. "I'm pretty sure reciting the words is an important part."

Xan looked thoughtful. "Not necessarily. Many truly powerful spellcasters can alter the spell so that no words are necessary. Or so that they need not go through the gestures. And a true High Mage could eschew both at once." He turned to her. "The most important component of any spell is the portion contained in the mind of the mage."

Her fingertip poked at the open parchment of the spellbook. "So um…imagining this swirly pattern here, and imagining it really (um, hard I guess?) is the key to becoming invisible?"

Xan frowned and let out a little sigh. Then to Imoen's surprise he said: "Actually, yes. Though your lack of formal arcane training shows. This 'swirly pattern' represents the angle at which light must be bent around the chosen object so that it is obscured to the eye of any viewer. Of course in a proper class on illusion it would be called the 'refractory curve' rather than a 'swirly pattern.' The lesser illusions I have seen you employ require something similar, do they not?"

"Yup. Gotta imagine the bendiness before the light bends for ya."

Scrunching his eyes shut, Xan shook his head slightly. "I believe you are in some desperate need of formal training."

"And?" She gave him an eager, expectant look.

"It is a bit late, but I suppose we could attempt the invisibility spell. You seem to make impressive use of it, after all. It would be beneficial if you could employ it on your own."

She clapped her hands. "Haha! Yup." After a moment she added: "Employ it on my own, so you'll never have to touch my shoulder again? Is that the plan?"

A pondering look, then he draped an arm over her shoulder, placing the spellbook between across their laps between them. "Of course not."

* * *

The trill of birdsong and the growing light that peaked through the curtains gradually awakened Imoen, and she found herself rolling on her back and stretching luxuriously in the big soft bed. _Ah._ It was good not to get woken up by strange and confusing dreams for once. Most nights lately her sleep had been haunted by disjointed images of fire, caverns, skulls and blood. A consequence of the strange new life she was living, no doubt.

Sitting up, she squished her eyes tight and then opened them, looking around the room. The bed nearby was empty and seemed to have gone untouched. _So the 'couples' ended up together after all. Hope Shar-Teel wasn't too mad._ On the carpeted floor between the beds sat Xan, cross-legged and still, his eyes closed.

"You could have used that bed, ya know," Imoen told him.

The elf's eyes opened immediately and he turned to her, a slight, surprising smile on his face. "No need for that," he said. "I am quite comfortable here."

Tossing the sheets aside, she smoothed out her rumpled underclothes and stretched. "I guess. It must be annoying for you though. How you could be out and about doing stuff most of the time, but the darn humans have to lay around like useless lumps all night."

"Not really." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "We _quessir_ make up for it by spending most of our time sitting around like 'useless lumps.' No one can flitter away a century quite like we." He sighed. "And I am better at that than most. Long months or seasons I have spent, sitting paralyzed by nothing I can put into words. Lathal had a talent for lifting me out of those valleys when I fell into them. Sometimes."

"Aww." Imoen gave him a wan smile. "Well, I'll always try to lift you if I can."

"You do." A little smile. "You do."

A laugh as she stood and made her way towards the wash-basin. "Gotta admit it weirds me out; you elves just sort of quietly sitting most times. At least you don't sit there and creepily watch me sleep like a gargoyle or something."

"Um…" He frowned and looked away. "I hope I gave you sufficient privacy."

A splash of water to her face, then her arms. After that she went to combing out her hair. "You did. Maybe too much even. If we're gonna be roommates I think ya aught to try things the human way. 'When in Chessenta' and all that.'"

"The human way?" He had gotten to his feet by now, and was carefully fastening his swordbelt to his hips.

"Yeah. Curl up in a bed for your 'quiet contemplation' or whatever it is."

"I thought Garrick might return last night."

"Well, it didn't have to be _that_ bed. Hint-hint. Nudge-nudge." She poked the air with her elbow for emphases.

To Imoen's great surprise Xan actually chuckled. "Ah. You might have noticed; as with 'frolicking,' snuggling simply does not come naturally to me."

She laughed and stood, setting her brush aside to dance over to the elf's side and slip an arm around him. "I'll just have to teach you then!"

His hand clasped her shoulder and for a time he hugged her close to him. "Speaking of lessons," Xan eventually said, "I recall you fell asleep nodding into your book after transcribing that spell. Did you succeed at understanding it?"

"Dunno." Imoen giggled and stepped away, turning to face him. "Only one way to find out."

She took a deep breath and set her fingers forward in the proper positions, her mind focusing on the light all around her; streaming in from the window, bouncing off every surface, the darker spots absorbing much of the beams while the lighter objects reflected them brightly. Once it was all clear in her mind she waved her fingers in intricate circles as she hummed out the words: " _Umbriel vistias quiel_."

There was a tingling accompanied by a slight red and white shimmer across her hands, then they vanished. "Yay!" Imeon cheered with delight. "Now you see me…now you don't!"


	46. Entar Silvershield's Greatest Treasure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's interested, I wrote a four-part supplemental story that runs parallel to the next few chapters. It's called Now You See Me, and it follows Imoen's misadventures going through some of the thief's quests in Baldur's Gate. It also prominently features Alora, who only makes a brief appearance in the main story. You can find it on this site. Check it out if you like!

_ "Is it really stealing if they totally, totally deserve it?"  _ – Olive Ruskettle

* * *

Choppy water lapped from shore to shore of the river Chionthar, the shadow of the great stone bridge that spanned the Wyrm's Crossing falling across the waves. It was the most impressive bridge Imoen had ever seen: perhaps a quarter mile of mortared stone, wide enough for at least two carriages to pass each other and supported by great arches, the underside slimy-green with moss and algae. Tall stone towers and sturdy gates marked the beginning, middle and end of the span, along with a lowered drawbridge at the halfway mark.

And the size of the bridge was nothing compared to the stone walls beyond; smooth and thick and buttressed at regular intervals by conical towers. In a way the castle walls were familiar, as they were of about the same design and height as those at Candlekeep and the Friendly Arm. But unlike those little citadels, these walls seemed to curve and stretch across most of the horizon beneath the open midday sky, promising that whatever lay beyond was on an entirely different scale.

"Quit your gawping," Shar-Teel snarled at Imoen, the hooves of their horses clopping from the gravel of the road to the packed cobbles of the great bridge. "You'll make us a target for thieves once we hit the city."

Ignoring her, Imoen just kept starting up at the gate as they passed beneath. Shar-Teel shook her head and Eldoth did as well. "You've seen one city, you've seen them all," he stated dismissively.

"Well, I haven't even seen one," Imoen admitted.

Xan's horse trotted in the lead, the elf stooped in his saddle and watching ahead as they crossed the drawbridge and approached the final gate. In the windows of each tower Imoen had spotted the helmed heads of guards, mostly giving the party bored looks as they passed. It was not until they were almost off the bridge that someone stepped out and began to approach the group, hailing them with a wave of his hand.

The man who greeted them was enormous; at least as tall and wide as Taugosz Khosann, if a bit chunkier. There was a stern and steady look on his ruddy face, along with a prominent scar that curved from cheekbone to chin beneath the gleaming bald dome of his head. He wore a thick black doublet emblazoned with the badge of the Flaming Fist, the hilts of several throwing axes clinking together at his belt as he marched forward, flanked by two heavily armored Fist soldiers.

"You don't wear a grey cloak," the big man told Xan by way of greeting.

The elf drew his horse up and pulled at the collar of his outer garment just a bit. "It is grey on the inside, but the color hardly matters." Slipping his feet from the stirrups, Xan slid down from his saddle and landed lightly on the bridge. "You were expecting us?"

The big man cocked his head and half-shrugged. "Hoping at least. I take it you and these mercenaries were the ones who wiped out the bandits in the Sharp Teeth? We had some men come through with tale of that, along with a big prize."

Xan nodded. "What happened to Khosann, if I may ask?"

The Flaming Fist leader shrugged. "Rotting in a dungeon or some such. So you really did take care of those bandits for us?"

"That and a bit more." Xan produced a packed of vellum from his cloak. "The Bandit King himself is dead. We tracked him to a secret iron mining operation in the Cloakwood Forest, where slaves taken from the caravan raids were being used to produce a secret stockpile of weapons, armor and other equipment. We have reason to believe, gleaned from these documents, what the slaves overheard and the interrogation of one of the slavers, that the bandits, the sabotage in the Nashkel mines and the operation in the Cloakwood were all masterminded by Rieltar Anchev."

The scarred man's eyes narrowed. "The merchant lord? Really?"

Xan nodded. "His Iron Throne cartel conspired to create a shortage of iron and then make a very hefty profit with the only supply of the stuff."

"But you've stopped that eh? Good on you. So what happened to that big stockpile? It could be useful to the Fist. Important evidence too."

Xan frowned and bit his lip.

"Well?"

"It's under a lake," Ashura interjected. "Along with the whole mine. Long story."

"Really? Damn…" the big man muttered. He swept them all with a suspicious look. "And how convenient for you."

Ashura shrugged, meeting his eyes. "It's the truth. On the plus side that lake got dumped on Tazok's head. Was a bit of a battle."

The Flaming Fist commander glared at them a moment, then to Imoen's surprise he shook his head and laughed, taking the package from Xan. "Adventuring parties eh? You can't just leave a place to pillaged later can you? Got to blow it all the fuck up in the most dramatic way possible." Another rumbling laugh. "I've been there, back in the day with Eltan and Moruene. Floods, explosions, collapsing fortresses, a lich's tower that fell into the ocean. All that fun stuff. Good times." A sigh. "Although, evidence and iron would have been nice."

"Thankfully they documented most of their conspiracy. Their correspondence is all here."

The Fist commander nodded. "Any captives? You said something about interrogating one of the slavers." Xan cringed, and the big man frowned, catching on immediately. "What happened?"

_ Shar-Teel happened _ , Imoen was tempted to say as many of their eyes fell on the warrior-woman.

Xan put it more tactfully. "Unfortunately the prisoner attempted to escape and…perished in the process."

_ Got run through from behind and then stabbed repeatedly by a cackling madwoman, more like. _

"Although," Xan added, "the escaped slaves may have headed this way. They are led by a blonde, elderly dwarf."

"Hm. We'll keep an eye out." A little snort. "Flimsy evidence, all told. All you really have at the moment is this correspondence, and that could be faked." The big man gave Xan a pondering look and then pointed at the blade that sat at the Greycloak's hip. "You can touch that sword?"

Xan nodded and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the moonblade.

"Good. And you swear on your honor as a Greycloak that everything you've told me is true."

"Absolutely. On my honor as a Greycloak it is the truth."

The man waited a moment, even glancing up as if he expected a bolt to come from the sky. When nothing happened, he clapped Xan on the shoulder with a broad hand. "That works then. We'll begin an investigation of the Iron Throne, and hopefully find some more solid evidence. I always suspected the Amnish weren't behind the iron shortage. Folks here are always so eager to lay every problem at Athkatla's feet."

"So," Xan asked with a slight sigh, "you will take it from here?"

"Aye. And you've done an excellent service for the Flaming Fist and the city of Baldur's Gate. You'll all be well rewarded." He offered Xan his hand. "I'm Scar, by the way. Second in command of the Fist."

Xan inclined his head. "Xanisteirial Feilien of Evereska. And thank you." He turned back towards Imoen and looked her in the eyes. For the first time she could recall the Greycloak had a bright, full and genuine smile on his face. Genuine, and very relieved.

* * *

Despite Shar-Teel and Eldoth's constant complaints, the two girls from Candlekeep couldn't help but gawp. Beyond the great gate that led into the city lay broad avenues of cobblestone and tall brick buildings that stretched as far as the eye could see, dwarfed by distant towers. The walls of a massive fortress were visible in the distance, close to a tower of red stone with a fine point at the top and tiered roofs all the way down.

Closer by the streets were packed with people, bright colors mixing with patchy roughspun rags, simple shawls and big broad hats, young ruddy cheeks beside faces that were as wrinkled as prunes, beards that were greasy and wild or waxed and forked, women's hair tied up in buns, bound in a dozen different styles of braids, even hanging in dreadlocks that clicked with beads and seashells. There were more people here than Ashura had ever seen in a single spot.

There was even a man on the open street dressed up as Elminster, his costume nearly as elaborate and gaudy as the one Garrick had once worn. It consisted of a long white beard, bright red robes, a pipe and a pointy hat, along with curling shoes. It also helped that the beard didn't look fake, and there seemed to be genuine lines around the man's expressive blue eyes.

The street performer waved his pipe at anyone who passed by, Ashura and her companions included. "Ho there wanderers," he intoned dramatically as their horses trotted near. "Stay thy course a moment to indulge an old man."

Ashura rolled her eyes and guided her horse along, but Imoen laughed and gave the reins a gentle pull, staying her course and indulging. She got a longwinded thank-you from the old performer, peppered with vaguely archaic sounding verses.

From there 'Elminster' launched into some magic tricks, telling stories as he used cantrips to turn the smoke he puffed into elaborate illustrations. It smelled mostly of cloves, but some of the wilder stories had Ashura wondering if he was puffing the lotus. Especially the one about being sucked into one of Demogorgon's maws and finding his way out the other. When the old man finished and swept his conical hat from his head Imoen clapped politely and dropped a few clinking bits of silver inside.

The performer bowed his head at that, the bald spot at the top of his crown glinting in the sun. "Thank thee kindly for thy indulgence, and thy patronage," he said to Imoen. "In return I shall grant a smidgeon of sagely advice, as is my custom." A deep breath. "Seek thy fortune in the secret house of Ffard, and you shall find it there, along with new friends." With that he turned and surveyed the rest of the group. "Sagely advice. Dost anyone else seek sagely advice?"

With a chuckle and a shrug, Ashura pulled a pair of silvers out and plopped them into the hat. "Sure."

'Elminster' nodded and looked at her a moment, then his brow crinkled and genuine concern grew on his face. "Do not yet seek thy brother out, for he is beyond thee. The time will come though, when brother and sister must vie for a throne. And _not_ an Iron Throne." He seemed to smirk at his little joke.

Ashura's eyes narrowed. "Uh…thanks. I guess. Wasn't really planning on it."

"Regardless, tis nice when anyone accepts sagely advice." With that the old man placed the hat back on his head, turned away and went back to waving at the passing crowd.

"You have a brother?" Imoen asked with a puzzled look.

"Possibly. I have a theory at least." Ashura glanced around. "I'll tell you in private." They began to trot down the street again, searching for the sign that would mark the Elfsong Tavern.

"Spooky then," Imoen noted. "You think that was the real Elminster?"

Ashura shook her head with a scoff. "Just some minor mage probably. Divining a tiny bit of truth about a person and putting it into the act adds to the mystique." She chuckled. "And everyone knows that the _real_ Elminster -if he exists at all- has a shorter beard than that. And he doesn't wear a goofy hat."

* * *

"Bhaal?!" Imoen exclaimed in a heavy whisper. "Really?"

Ashura shrugged slightly, just a silhouette in the dimly lit booth they had picked in a quiet corner of the Elfsong Tavern. The place had proven a perfect spot for a private meeting, with good food to boot. Only soft glowlamps lit the taproom and the many booths and alcoves where patrons sat, hidden behind curtains if they wished to pull them shut. Most of the light was focused on the bar, where a blonde half-elven woman cleaned glasses beneath a striking trophy: a small, stuffed beholder, glass eyes on its eyestalks and all. The proprietress wore a silky blue blouse that displayed a great deal of midriff and cleavage. _Small wonder Coran recommended the place._

Both Ashura and Imoen had ordered spiced sandwiches with melted cheese, and where washing them down with flagons of a strong, licorice-flavored drink.

"Like I said," Ashura whispered, "it's a theory. I've been seeing the holy symbol of Bhaal in my dreams ever since we left Candlekeep, and with the dreams come powers. And you remember the prophesy the chanters were always singing? And what Nimbul called me. It would explain all that, if I was one of the 'scores of mortal progeny.'"

Imoen shook her head and gave her sandwich a poke, appetite gone. "No. There's other explanations. More plausible too. I mean, that symbol was on the chest of the guy who murdered Gorion right? You saw that, then you started having nightmares about it. Big surprise. I've been having some awful dreams lately too."

"That doesn't explain-"

"The powers? Lotsa mostly-normal people have weird little traits 'cause their great-grandma shagged a devil or a marid or a snake-person or something. Lot more likely that you're one-eighth tiefling than a half- _god_! I mean sheesh. Talk about an ego!"

Ashura chuckled. "Yeah. I like your explanation." She wanted to believe it too. But something in her blood sang at the mention of the Lord of Murder. Something reasonable-sounding words could not dismiss.

"I'm still holding out hope that you're the princess of Damara."

"Me too. And you won't tell the others right? It's just a theory. And maybe a silly one."

"Yeah. Real silly."

"' _Chaos will be sown with their passage_ ,'" Ashura quoted, imitating the chanter's monotone. Then she took a bite of her sandwich.

Imoen cringed at that. "Yup. We do get more than our fair share of chaos, I suppose."

Nearby a man cleared his throat and they both twisted around, Ashura's hands shooting for her weapons. It was a little shocking that they hadn't noticed the stranger approach, as he wore some of the brightest red clothes Imoen had ever seen along with some bits of clashing aqua blue, a hood and cloak included. Ashura drew one of her swords halfway but Imoen just eyed the newcomer. Didn't seem like an assassin would announce himself by clearing his throat.

"Yes?" Imoen asked.

"Sorry to interrupt, m'ladies," the man in bright red apologized with a little bow and something of a Waterdevian accent. "Me name's Niklos, and I'm just a humble courier. Here to deliver a little message is all."

"What is it?" Ashura asked, eyes sharp and hand still prepared to launch the sword from its sheath.

Niklos cleared his throat again. "You folks are the ones who destroyed the secret base in the Cloakwood right?" Ashura just glared and Imoen nodded. "As such, I've been told to extend you an invitation to a very exclusive little club here in the city. We could use the help of mercenaries of your…particular talents."

"What club's that?" Ashura asked.

Niklos looked off and his head bobbed to one side, then the other as he went on. "It has no specific name, mind you. Just a place for men and women who enjoy their anonymity and a certain sort of-"

"The local thieves' guild?" Imoen suggested helpfully.

"I wouldn't say guild exactly…"

"Massive gang?" Imoen asked.

"Organized crime syndicate?" Ashura suggested.

"That's another way of…urm…" The young man shook his head a bit. "In any case my master, Alatos Thuibuld, would like a word, and to possibly hire you for a lucrative job. You can meet him in the big building just north of here. Bunch of ramshackle structures stacked together. Enter by any door and when the person minding the inner passage asks you for today's password say 'Ffard.'"

Imoen's eyes grew wide and she exchanged a look with Ashura. "Okay."

Niklos gave a little bow. "Good. Then I'm on to my next job." He turned and silently walked off, dodging past patrons and tables before he turned a corner and vanished.

"Wow!" Imoen whispered once he was gone. "Maybe you really are a child of Bhaal with a mysterious brother who's trying to murder you."

"That or 'Elminster' is part of the thieves' guild." Ashura's eyes suddenly went wide and she slipped a hand down to her belt. "Fuck!"

Imoen searched too, shaking her head. Both of their coinpurses were gone. Several hundred gold and silver, all told.

"Ugh. At least we kept the gems in the saddlebags." They had a long afternoon of trying to pawn jewels for all they were worth ahead of them, if they wanted to rent some nice rooms at the Elfsong. And pay their tab.

* * *

Although she had bathed, had her clothes laundered, wore a new cloak and had even gotten her chainmail repaired at a smithy on the south side of the city, everyone Ashura passed on the street made it very clear that she didn't belong. All around her people bustling about in the crisp, spare outfits of domestic servants exchanged whispers and gave her suspicious stares.

From the people whom she guessed were nobles she simply got upturned noses as they walked through the pristine gardens, the fops trying to look anywhere but in the direction of her and her companions. The men wore colorful, flared hose and big, formless caps that were all the rage at the moment, and the ladies on their arms were dressed in elegant gowns tapered tight at the waist, their caps tall and billowing. Though it was the fading hour of the afternoon many of them carried parasols, and seemed to use them as twirling barriers to keep the poor and unworthy at bay.

Ashura recognized their type well enough. The rare traveler that visited Candlekeep tended to be wealthy, thanks to the high price of admission to the citadel. As a child she had gotten the same disdainful looks from men and women dressed much like these, usually when she ran past them, barefoot and caked in mud. Sending the easily-flustered peacocks squirming away from her had seemed like a fun game at the time, even if it often meant a stern lecture from Parda. Perhaps it still was.

"Is it really a good idea to do this in broad daylight?" Imoen asked in a low voice. Her part of the planned heist would supposedly involve climbing out of a second story window, along with Eldoth.

From the front of their little entourage Eldoth replied: "I assure you, my timing is impeccable. Showing up on their doorstep at night would arouse suspicion, and twilight should just be falling when we make our escape. And of course if we can manage to remain invisible it will matter little."

Over the past two days he had been gone most of the time, staking out the Silvershield Estate and supposedly planning this all down the most minor detail. At least he assured Ashura of that, though he had been skimpy on the details with her. Supposedly she, Garrick and Xan just needed to look solemn and deliver the bad news. Viconia and Shar-Teel had been left behind, not being part of the original crew of caravan guards (and being a bit conspicuous on top of that.) Coran would have been a nice addition, especially if he actually possessed the jewelry-stealing skills he always bragged of, but he had not yet arrived in the city.

"Guess that works," Imoen said, stifling a yawn.

"Another late night?" Garrick asked her.

"Yup. Workin' for the funny-talking guy from super-secret you-know-what-guild! And I didn't have to play lookout this time. Got to do some sneak-about work. And impersonate a cat!"

"You were 'working' huh?" Eldoth asked. "Out all night with a dashing rogue?" Ashura couldn't help but glance at Xan. He was frowning of course, but perhaps he looked more morose than usual.

"Pish-posh!" Imoen retorted. "Of course _you'd_ make an assumption like that. Pure business! I could never fall fer' a fellow who doesn't enunciate proper-like." She waved a finger in the air. "And besides," she added "I think Narlen's sweet on Black Lily."

They walked on, past trickling fountains, manicured trees and uncluttered streets lined with benches that sat beneath estates of fine stone or brick; two or even four stories in height. Some of the homes were simple and elegant, others decorated with flanged minarets or even gargoyles and roof-gardens. And they seemed to be nearing the greatest estate of all: a walled-off compound that filled the very northwestern corner of the city.

"Amazing isn't it?" Imoen spoke up again. "Just our third day in the city and already it's my second…nay, third grand heist!"

"Um…" Ashura muttered, glancing around at the empty street and the intimidating stone walls that marked the edge of the Silvershield Estate. "It might be better if you don't use the H-word in public."

"Quite true," Eldoth agreed.

"Woops! Sorry." A pause. "But it is exiting."

"Not the word I would use for this most foolish endeavor," Xan complained.

"Aw. Come on! We spent a lot of time looking into your 'most foolish endeavor.' I think at one point or another _someone_ even called it 'doomed.' Yet here we are. Only fair that I get a turn leading us on a merry mission!"

"A mission implies some sort of service," Xan pointed out.

"Yup. A service to Mask. It's my sacred duty, you see. And what we're serving is some comeuppance to some pricks who really deserve it! That's how these sorts of things work. Find the richest guy in town, take 'em down a peg!"

"And you know that this Entar fellow is a 'prick who really deserves it' how exactly?"

"Like I said, he's the richest guy in town. He must have done something nasty to someone to get there. Maybe Eldoth has some more details?" She looked at the bard hopefully.

"You put it succinctly enough, my dear Imoen," was all Eldoth said.

Xan shook his head. "When I swore an oath to uphold the laws of Evereska this is the last place I imagined it taking me."

"Uh oh," Imoen said in a teasing tone. "You're not gonna turn us in, are you Mr. Lawman?"

"Not my jurisdiction." Xan gave her a pat on the shoulder. "I'll play along. With a little protest."

"Wouldn't expect anything less."

The key-shaped sigil of House Silvershield hung above the gate in the great stone wall, and once they had passed beneath the arch and portcullis a well-manicured lawn stretched before them. A gardener was clipping at a rounded cherry tree nearby, giving them a suspicious eye as they walked the white pebble path towards a sprawling three-story manse of whitewashed brick.

Ashura took the lead, head high and acting as if she belonged here, the way Eldoth had instructed. 'You have the best 'caravan guard' look about you,' he had said. She strolled up to the heavy oaken double doors and knocked.

Eventually a manservant in a rigidly pressed suit peeled the door back slightly; just enough of a crack to show Ashura his wary look. She waited a beat for a 'State your business,' and when the man just glared at her silently she asked: "May we speak with the lord of the house? We carry news of his son, Eddard Silvershield."

"You do?" His eyes stayed narrow.

She used the most formal voice she could manage. "Yes. We worked for Eddard as caravan guards. The rest we'd prefer to convey to the lord of the house himself."

The manservant snorted. "News huh. That you would prefer to convey." There was an awkward silence and then he shrugged and pulled the door open. "Wipe your feet _thoroughly_ before you enter the foyer, and stay right there." He gestured. "The lord of the house is away, but the lady will see you. I am sure she wishes to hear your 'news.'"

To describe the interior of the estate as opulent would have been an understatement. Gold-threaded tapestries covered every wall, rich with elaborate patterns and bright hues, and every surface was covered with thick Calishite rugs. Overstuffed couches and chairs lined the chamber, and in the next room Ashura caught a glimpse of a grand piano carved from gleaming red spruce and polished so brightly it could be used as a mirror.

As they looked around, the manservant scurried towards a distant hallway and Ashura gave his back a thoughtful glare. She had not been sure exactly how they would be greeted, but this seemed wrong. Turning towards Eldoth, she tried to give him a questioning look, but he ignored her, his face a mask of arrogance and certainty.

A heavyset man in a uniform of leather and steel had stepped in to watch them, a sword on his belt and arms crossed over his chest. Under his gaze they fidgeted and waited for the lady of the house.

Waited, and waited, and then waited some more; until Ashura's eyes had scanned over every tessellating tapestry and could have counted the candles in each candelabra. Eventually there was a sound of muffled footsteps in the distance, and they watched a woman of middle years in an elegant dress of solid black stroll towards them. The manservant walked ahead of her, and there was a guard at either side.

When Lady Silvershield halted, her nose upturned and her puffy sleeves pressed together, the look she gave them was downright hateful. _Definitely something wrong._

"I am told you were guards, working for Captain Kagain?" the lady asked.

Ashura inclined her head. "Yes ma'am. We-"

"Guards entrusted with protecting my son. A duty you were _most_ derelict in."

Ashura's mouth opened, then shut tight, her eyes narrowing. She recalled something Imoen had told her, about how Captain Kagain had reacted when they found Eddard's body. Supposedly he had claimed that he'd never be able to show his face in Baldur's Gate again. _Nine bloody Hells._ She glanced over. _Eldoth, what have you gotten me into?_

"Do you expect some sort of reward?" the lady went on. "Did you think we would not already know, over two _months_ after my son's death, what had happened to him? Some of your comrades crawled into the city a mere tenday after the attack." She shook her head. "When Entar found them…"

"We could show you exactly where the body is," Garrick suggested in a helpful tone. "I was there, when the coach crashed. Maybe we can-"

"You were _there_? My son's personal guard, and you failed him."

"It wasn't-"

"I should have you hanged! Like Entar did with the others. 'Dereliction of duty, pure and simple,' he said." She gestured towards the guards, the two at her side already fanning out and the third man stepping towards them. "I should have you seized!"

Ashura's swords were out of their sheathes long before the guards had even put hands to hilts, and she was down and ready in a fighting crouch. Nearby she could see the glow of Xan's moonblade, and Imoen had an arrow ready and knocked. "No one's getting seized," Ashura snarled, leveling a glare at one guard, then another.

The guards had their swords out but they were holding back. It would be three against five, and the men could obviously see that they were outmatched in arms, armor and magic.

_ Nine bloody skull-fucking Hells!  _ It would be a simple matter to tear through these three, and cut the harpy down too. _But what then?_ They'd have the whole of the Flaming Fist coming down on their heads after that. Hunters and war wizards and battalions in heavy armor.

Ashura was sorely tempted to turn around and burry the edge of her blade in Eldoth's smug face for getting them into this mess. Sadly that wouldn't do them any good at the moment.

"You'd best all leave," one of the guards stated. Seemed he had done the math too. "And fast."

The lady waved her hand. "Indeed. Get out of my sight."

Ashura gave a quick nod and began backing towards the door, the others moving with her, weapons still ready and eyes facing out. "Gladly."

"See," Imoen whispered from within their little formation. "Pricks who really deserve it, just like I said. Hangin' some poor caravan guards…"

"Shhh," Xan hissed, and then they slipped out.

Ashura sheathed her weapons and turning towards the far stone wall, setting the pace as she swiftly marched for the gate. Her eyes were on the raised portcullis. Things might still go south if they dropped that damn thing and summoned more guards. "Well that went terribly," she muttered.

"I don't know," Garrick stated, almost cheerful. "We might still be following the plan."

She glanced around. Garrick was on her left and Xan walked at her right, Imoen and Eldoth nowhere in sight. True enough, getting those two into the mansion _had_ been the plan. The rest would be up to them. Grabbing the two men by their arms, Ashura picked up the pace, dragging them through the gate and to the safety of the city beyond.

* * *

_ A heist! A heist! A heist! _

Now this was the sort of thing that Imoen had been dreaming of ever since she set out on the road with a head full of adventure stories and a pocket full of stolen potions. Invisible, she crept down the hallways of the great mansion, stalking cross the carpets as silent as a cat, holding her breath as she crept past lounging guards. Catching her breath too, when she came close to blundering into a patrolling sentry, dressed in one of those leather uniforms and so close she could have counted his acne scars.

From time to time she would stop to carefully tease a lock open, guided forward by Eldoth's measured whispers. The bard could walk silently well enough, and his invisibility spell was handy, but it was clear he was at a loss when it came to locks and traps.

With every step Imoen's eyes swept about in search of traps or warding glyphs, alchemical powder prepared to disrupt the magical obstacles, nimble feet ready to dance over anything mechanical. So far she had disarmed two minor wards, but there was no sign of any spike traps or pressure plates. Probably not something wise to put on the floor where your children play.

As Imoen knelt and carefully worked at the lock of an especially impressive door, she wondered if she would soon come to a vault with some sort of hard-to-crack safe. A clockwork gnomish invention perhaps? For something like that she would probably have to use up her special lock-opening spell, but maybe she was up for the challenge. _Ooo!_ And what if there was some sort of magical guardian too? Maybe she'd have to slip by it.

_ Now this is my kind of adventure!  _ Perhaps when they came to the vault it would be like that bit from _The Misadventures of Jak Fleet_ where he had to switch the carved idol out with a bag of equal weight. Or maybe there would be as many guards patrolling in the next area as there had been in _A Waltz with Brigands_ when the princess had to steal back the nude portrait, and Imoen would have to dance around the patrols.

Maybe the invisibility spell would wear off, and she'd have to come up with one of the elaborate lies that Lin Lanoda was always spinning in the stories. Of course it was more likely they'd have to bop the hypothetical guard on the head, the way Krognar the Uthgardt always did in the stories where he worked as a thief.

_ Hrm. Of course people usually don't go down cleanly when you hit them on the head.  _ The stunning spell she had prepared would probably work better.

With a click the lock released and the door gently creaked inward, but instead of a vault or a magical guardian or halls full of neatly patrolling guards, the door simply opened on a bedroom. Of course, it _was_ the most opulent bedroom Imoen had ever seen, with enough elegantly carved mahogany wardrobes to clothe an army, a massive bed with a silken canopy, and vibrant tapestries woven with a significant amount of goldthread, depicting birds and sundrenched mountains.

_ Entar's room?  _ was her first thought as she crept forward, but across from the doorway a girl around Imoen's age sat in an overstuffed chair, dressed in a spotless outfit. There was a book that the girl seemed to be idly reading in her lap. _Hmm. Maybe there's some sort of vault past here? We'll just have to sneak by the-_

Behind Imoen the door slid shut and latched, and the girl in the chair gave a start, looking up from her book in surprise. The girl's hand shot to her mouth and she gasped, and at the same time Imoen tensed, finding her dagger in her hand and her back against a nearby wall. There was a shimmer in the air between them, and then Eldoth was standing in that space; tall and proudly smirking.

The girl's eyes were wide with shock, then to Imoen's surprise she let out a joyous squeak and sent the book flying as she leapt from the chair. Her arms entwined behind Eldoth's back and she buried her face against his broad chest. "Eldoth!" the girl exclaimed in a muffled, high-pitched voice. "You made it up!"

"Of course," he purred with utter confidence, then looked towards the spot where Imoen was crouching and hidden. "With a little hel-"

The girl silenced him by climbing up on her toes, cupping a hand behind his head and pressing her lips to his in an eager kiss. Eldoth's eyes widened for the briefest of moments, then he embraced her and settled in.

Imoen's eyes were wide with shock as well, and stayed that way. It certainly looked like a scene from a storybook, but not the one Imoen had expected. Somehow she'd slipped from the swashbuckling adventure section into a lurid romance. It might even have been touching, if not for the scene she remembered walking in on several nights ago at the Friendly Arm.

Sinking back with a smile, the girl gestured at herself. "I dressed for travel, just like you said." Looking her over Imoen supposed that the outfit was sturdy if a bit gaudy: tough woolen trousers and a matching shirt under a soft leather vest, all various shades of blue and deep royal purple, lined with soft red velvet beneath. Next the girl pointed at the bed. "And I made a rope from the bedsheets. But like I told you in the note: the lock daddy put on the window after last time is…well I think it's a gnomish contraption. I've tried and tried to pick it but…"

"I believe I have a solution to that," Eldoth said, gesturing towards Imoen's general location. "You see, I've brought a bit of an accomplice. Don't be shy now."

"Um…hi there miss," Imoen managed.

The girl's hand shot to her mouth once again. "Oh! I didn't realize."

Imoen shook her invisible head and walked over to the window, peering down at the box of brass and steel that housed the newly installed lock. It looked like exactly the sort of complex mechanism she had pictured protecting the Silvershield vault, though it seemed out of place holding two double-pained and leaded windows together. Not able to see her lockpicking tools, she went by feel and toyed with the tumblers. A slightly awkward process, made worse by the fact that the darn thing seemed have recesses deeper than even her thin steel wire could go.

_ Sod it _ , she decided after a few fruitless minutes teasing the mechanism and hearing it bite and click back into place. Setting her lockpicks aside, Imoen took a deep breath, closed her eyes and held an open palm over the lock. Picturing the mechanism as clearly as she could in her mind, she willed it all to unfold and unravel, at the same time intoning a few brief words. There was a prismatic glimmer all around as her invisibility spell lifted, and at the same time the little mechanical box glowed white for a moment, then clicked and slid apart, the windows silently parting.

Smiling a bit at her handiwork, Imoen looked over at Eldoth and the girl. "There! And nice to meet you. I'm Imoen, by the way."

"Skie Silvershield," the girl said with an elegant inclination of her long, swan-like neck. Even with her dark brown hair pulled back in a simple bun and dressed in practical boots and trousers she looked every bit the princess; golden threads and chains decorating her blouse, rings gleaming on her fingers, and a healthy amount of makeup accenting her large brown eyes; a hint of blue that matched the color of her clothes. There was a small mole that some might consider a beauty mark just above her upper lip, and she moved and held herself with a dancer's grace, waltzing over to the window once Imoen had opened it and uncoiling the long silken rope. Turning to Imoen, Skie gave her a shy smile.

"Thank you so much," Skie gushed in her high, sing-song voice. "It's kind of you to do a service like this for the sake of love."

Imoen blanched at that, and the other girl cocked her head slightly. "Something wrong?" asked Skie.

"I uh…just didn't realize you were…"

Eldoth patted Imoen on the shoulder. "As I told you, I sought to steal Entar Silvershield's greatest treasure." Skie giggled at that. "I apologize if there was any confusion." He reached over and opened the drawer of a gilt-lined mahogany desk. "Of course, we can compensate you for the trouble." He pulled out a fistful of glittering jewels; a black opal, a water opal and a gleaming pearl necklace. "Can't we dear?"

Skie inclined her head, smiling as she tied the silken rope to a heavy wardrobe. "Of course. I'm happy to share the wealth with all my rescuers."

With a satisfied nod Eldoth handed the gems to Imoen and then fished out another handful for himself, cleaning out the desk. She just gave the glittering stones a bewildered look. _Not the bloody point._

Looking up, Imoen watched Skie hop onto the windowsill and began to climb out with practiced ease. Eldoth followed, climbing a bit more cautiously.

Imoen took one more look down at the jewels before she stuffed them in a pocket and followed the couple to the window, a sinking feeling in her stomach. _Not like the heist tales at all._ On the one hand maybe the girl really had needed 'rescuing.'

On the other hand, she couldn't shake the feeling that the 'pricks who really deserve it' in this tale were her and Eldoth.

* * *

The stunned look still hadn't left Imoen's face an hour later when she was sitting at a table in the Elfsong Tavern, an untouched bowl of stew in front of her while she watched Eldoth and Skie share intimate whispers in a secluded booth across the room. Viconia sat beside her, masked as usual and with what appeared to be amusement in her eyes. Imoen had been expecting fury.

"You're um…okay with this?" she muttered to the drow.

"Oh, I would have been most dangerously annoyed," Viconia whispered to her in a conspiratory tone, "if the male had not had the good sense to tell me of his scheme days ago. And a most amusing and audacious scheme it is. It reminds me of a time long ago, when one of my male playthings managed to seduce a naïve cousin of mine and helped me undermine the little _wael_ to the point of ruin."

"I see." _Not really._

"Sadly, _that_ male grew too ambitious and had to be put down. Perhaps we'll need to do the same with this one, though things on the surface seem to be a bit different. Rather than being about status, for instance, his scheme is about coin. Something you surfacers are so obsessed with, though it does seem to be the key to a comfortable life up here."

"Ya. We already pilfered her jewel box," Imoen noted glumly.

"Ah, but as the male explained to me his plan runs far deeper. You see, the waif's family thinks she has been kidnapped, and will pay a hefty ransom for her 'safety.' The impression I received was that he even convinced the fool girl that the ransom was her own idea. Money for the two of them to start a 'new life' with or some such rubbish. Of course he never told me the entirety of his plan, but he is an easy enough creature to read."

Ashura was giving the happy couple a disgusted glare from the other side of the table. "We should tell Shar-Teel," she muttered. "Bet she'd sort this out. In a spectacularly bloody way."

Raising an eyebrow, Viconia asked: "You don't want the ransom money? As I understand it it's to be several thousand gold coins, at the least. If we are to put the male down we should at least collect that first." Ashura just scowled at that too. "And besides, why would you wish to disrupt such a happy couple? Look at how she hangs upon him."

Again, a silent scowl.

"I don't think you appreciate the elegance of his little scheme."

"No. I don't."


	47. Charms and Curses

_ "And with that I found myself afflicted with that most common of curses: parenthood."  _ -Raelis Shae, _A Reluctant Savior_ , Act II Scene V

* * *

Taking a deep breath, Imoen gradually opened her eyes. She was hunched forward slightly, poised on the carpet with one foot in front of the other, left hand at rest while the right hovered by her ear, fingers rolled up. Looking up, she met Xan's eyes. The elf watching her impassively from the edge of the bed where he sat.

"Got it pictured clear as day," Imoen said with a hint of a smile. "The 'sympathetic spark' you were talkin' 'bout. But uh…what now?"

"Now, the spell should be ready," Xan stated. "You've only to set it off with the words and a snap of your fingers. Were this the College of Magic there would be a willing subject for the students to test the enchantment upon. Usually an underclassman."

Imoen giggled. "Ulp! Is it like some sort of hazing? Ya make them lick a privy seat or pour tomato sauce on their heads?"

Xan shook his head. "Not quite. It is strictly supervised. The charmed subject is simply instructed to run through some...less colorful tests, like picking up a selected object on a nearby table." His frown deepened. "I was going to suggest you test the spell on me, but the fact that your mind goes immediately to privy seats and tomato sauce makes me wary."

"Aww. Hey now! I'd never do that." She scrunched her face up a bit. "Don't really like the idea of putting a charm spell on anyone, bein' honest. I hypnotized a guard the other night. Just so me and Narlen could run away. Even _that_ felt pretty icky."

She shook her head a little before going on. "You remember what happened when we first met, right? Was convinced that little halfling snake was some sort of friend I had to guard with my life. Scary to think back on. Me and Shura both risked our butts a bunch of times for those two slimeballs. And I sometimes wonder what they might have done if Khalid and Jaheira hadn't been around…" She made a face and then rolled her shoulders, as if to shake a spider off.

A solemn nod from Xan. "The school of enchantment is certainly open to the worst sorts of abuse." He tilted his head. "Conversely, it is often the only sort of magic you can use to completely avoid bloodshed. That was my thinking when I first took to its study, at least. Mind you, this was long before I was chosen by my family moonblade." He gave the sword sitting on the dresser a thoughtful look, a regretful tone entering his voice. "Bloodshed always seems to follow when that blade is drawn."

"Well yeah, but it's just 'cause you're pretty good at chopping people with it."

"Ha!" a voice boomed as the door creaked open, the newcomer stomping heedlessly into the bedroom. "I keep tellin' him that," Shar-Teel shouted, her words a bit slurred and the smell of rollrum wafting before her. "The elf's got the makings fer a fine warrior, if he ever commits himself to the butcher's work." She sauntered up to Xan as she spoke, giving him a firm tap on the arm that nearly knocked him over and had him making a face.

Despite herself, Imoen was suddenly tempted to test her charm spell then and there and send the drunk woman packing. _No no no. Only for emergencies. Besides, she's harmless._

"He's frail as a kitten, of course, but he's got the strength to swing that blade and can be a nimble little fucker when he wants." With a yank Shar-Teel carelessly tossed her helmet off, one of the horns nicking the hardwood floor before it rolled away. Her dirty-blonde hair was damp and tangled beneath, and she made no effort to push it out of her face, unfastening her swordbelt next.

"Uh. Weren't you rooming with Shura?" Imoen asked.

"Bah! I _was_ , till she started getting a bit too handsy with that pet wimp of hers." Shar-Teel let out an angry sigh. "He was bearable enough when he was singin' or passing out drunk after a couple ales, but the thought of that squeaky little voice of his shouting from the other bed while they do the deed?" She shook her head as she pulled on some straps at her back. "No thanks!" With a heavy clink Shar-Teel's scaled armor coat piled on the floor, revealing a grey and white tunic beneath. She plopped down on the bed next to Xan, yanking her boots off before stretching out. "Ah! Much better."

After a brief pause and a few more stretches Shar-Teel went on. "I don't know what she sees in that little wuss of hers."

Imoen opened her mouth, ready with a theory or two.

"He's lean and pretty enough I guess," Shar-Teel went on, "but that _voice_! Fine when he's singin', but then the little bugger decides he's a comedian." Crossing her eyes and switching to a squeaky voice, she did an exaggerated impression. "'Yes sir! With godspeed.' Blech!"

"Well, we all have habits-"

"I hear he even has a tiny pecker." She held up a hand, thumb and forefinger close together. "Bloody useless, top to bottom."

And with that Imoen's mouth snapped shut, at a loss for words.

"You know," Xan suggested in his most diplomatic tone, "we could rent an extra room for you. There seems to be plenty of space in the Elfsong."

"Bloody expensive," Shar-Teel complained, her head swaying from side to side. "It's what you get for bedding down at an inn that usually rents rooms by the hour." Pitching a little to the side, she threw an arm over Xan's shoulder, perhaps to catch herself, press close, or both. The end result left the elf uncomfortably scrunched against the bigger woman, his chin on her chest and his arms hanging limply, body tense and a look on his face like he was ready to crawl out of his own skin. Shar-Teel just grinned down at the top of his head. "And I'm plenty comfortable here."

"What happened to 'I'm not sharing a room with any of these pigs'?" Imoen asked.

Shar-Teel chuckled as Xan managed to squirm back and sit up. "Ha! Of all the pigs he's the most tolerable." She turned towards the elf, nearly nose to nose and just bobbing in closer as he tried to lean back and retreat. "Why, I'd go so far 's to say that he's pleasant company. Smells nice. Usually knows 'is place. Neat and tidy." There was a wicked grin on her face as she pressed her nose right against Xan's. "A fine man indeed."

_ Hoooo boy. She's really drunk. _

With a great deal of dread and an even tone, Xan slowly spoke. "I do indeed know my place, Shar-Teel. And I am _very_ certain that it is as far away from your flammable breath as possible." He squirmed a little but she caught his shoulder and held on firmly.

Without any sign of offense Shar-Teel chuckled and continued to lean into him. "Nah. I say your place is right here under my-"

_ Alright, that's IT!  _ Slipping back into the position she had taken before, Imoen snapped her fingers and hummed a quick incantation. A spark sputtered to life and sailed from her fingertips, fluttering over to Shar-Teel's forehead where it vanished with a flash. The woman's slurred words cut off midsentence and she stared at Xan with a blank look in her eyes.

"Hey Ess-Tee!" Imoen called, waving her hand.

Shar-Teel's head drifted around a bit and she gave Imoen a dreamy look. "Yes?"

"Don't you wanna go visit Viconia? I bet she's real lonely. Maybe you two can share notes on how pathetic men are? Maybe plot the downfall of the weaker sex together?"

A drunk, toothy smile, and then Shar-Teel disengaged from Xan, got to her feet and wobbled across the carpet. "Good plan. The downfall of the weaker sex!"

"Ex-actly!"

Barefoot and still dressed in the simple tunic, Shar-Teel stumbled out into the hall.

"Whew," Imoen muttered, walking over and shutting the door. For good measure she locked it. _What was I thinking? 'Oh, don't mind Shar-Teel. She's harmless.' No she's not!_

Xan was sitting upright now, his hands busily straightening out his sleeves. "I thank you for the timely rescue," he said. "I had promised _not_ to use charm spells on her. Though, she may not see the distinction once your enchantment wears off."

"Hopefully she just won't remember a thing. And Viconia won't be too mad."

"That is a great deal to hope for."

"True enough." She walked over to the bed and sank down beside him. The sheets were still warm where Shar-Teel had been.

Looking off, Imoen frowned slightly. _That look on Xan's face_. Long before Shar-Teel had gotten dangerously pushy he'd seemed genuinely horrified. With a drunk woman practically throwing herself at him. Imoen had spent enough time working in a tavern to observe that most men enjoy attention from forward women, even if they aren't interested. Usually they politely flirt and enjoy the little ego-stoking.

She had also spent time around some of the monks in Candlekeep who were not _remotely_ interested in women. Like or not, Xan reminded her a bit of them. _Bah! I really should just ask! But how do you do that tactful-like?_

She thought on it a moment, but instead just ended up lifting Xan's spellbook off the bed and setting it in her lap. _Hmm._ A moment's hesitation, and then she reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. He didn't cringe away from her touch like he had with Shar-Teel's. Even seemed to relax a bit.

_ Well maybe that's a sign.  _ Opening the book up, Imoen asked: "So what else can you teach me 'bout charm spells?"

"I believe you have the basics down."

She turned towards him again. There it was: that rare hint of a smile on his face. "I'm charming enough?" she asked.

"You certainly are." Okay, he was definitely smiling. One of Xan's long fingernails tugged at the edge the page, flipping through. The book opened to a series of runes and diagrams that were unfamiliar to her. An arm wrapped round Imoen's shoulder and they both shifted a bit, the book propped up between them for easy reading. "The basics of abjuration may be a good next step. Especially if Shar-Teel or Viconia come storming in here later."

* * *

Once again Imoen awakened to the dim grey of morning and a glimpse of Xan's vivid purple robes. This time instead of sitting near the bed in meditation he stood, back turned to her and facing the open window. The world was painted grey outside; dense clouds and a light drizzle visible through the perspiring windowpanes. Sitting up, she realized that she was still wearing her cloth pants and fading pink tunic. _He must've tucked me in when I dozed off._

Wiggling to the edge of the bed, she stretched a little more, but Xan didn't seem to notice. He just stood at the window, still as a statue. "What'cha staring at?" Imoen finally asked as she pushed tangled hair back from her eyes, voice a little raw.

He didn't turn. "Nothing in particular."

Climbing to her feet, Imoen stretched her arms above her head. "A boring thing ta be staring at. 'Nothing.' You worry me sometimes, ya know." She strolled over to the window and her arms encircled him, clasping across his slender waist as she nuzzled up against his back. He didn't flinch away. Even seemed to ease a little.

Maybe that gave her hope. Maybe she was reading too much into things.

Her cheek pressed between his shoulder blades. "I mean," she went on, "you only rest a little bit each night. Shouldn't you be doing something with the rest of your time? Reading books? Doing pushups? Whittling little dragons out of wood? Going out to the finer taverns in town in search of handsome lads?" _Ya, I'm totally fishing there._ "Building a ship in a bottle? Sketching with charcoal? Writing a book?" There was no reaction to any of the suggestions though.

She felt Xan's back shift as he took in a deep breath. One of those familiar sighs. "I just mean," she pressed on, "you have all this time. And you end up staring out a window for what, six hours? That can't be healthy." He did not reply. _So yeah. He's really been staring out a window for six hours. Yeesh._

Eventually Xan spoke. "We elves…we have a different sense of time."

"I'm aware of that. Though I think sometimes you just use that as an excuse to stare out windows for hours." She leaned back, placing her hands on his shoulders. It only took a gentle tug to turn him around so that he finally faced her, long brown hair hanging loose against his hollow cheeks. He was not particularly tall, but had a few inches on her, those wistful eyes looking down.

"There may be some truth to your words," Xan admitted. "Although…" He looked thoughtful. "I felt no motivation, last night, to go off and do anything while you were asleep. It was…comforting to…" He fumbled a bit, then to her surprise a hint of a smile tugged at his lips. "Stand guard, I suppose?"

She laughed. "Wellll…guess I don't mind if you do that. But I still think ya need some hobbies."

"And what could I do? While you spend such a _dreadfully_ long portion of the night sleeping?"

_ Sleep with me?  _ She _almost_ blurted that out as it popped into her head. Seemed like a perfect quip. Instead she just said: "We'll figure something out." Whirling away, Imoen went searching for her comb. "And I'm awake now. So like or not I'm gonna drag your butt outside and we're finding _something_ to do."

"In this weather?" Xan asked, glancing out the window.

"That's what raincloaks are for, silly. Now, I bet the Wide's gonna be pretty dead in this weather, but how about Sorcerous Sundries? I hear they have some pretty nifty things on display there, even if we probably can't afford 'em."

Xan gave a noncommittal shrug.

She looked over at him briefly, then turned to the mirror. _Ugh. This is going to drive me crazy isn't it? Should just ask him. What are you Imoen, an elf? Sittin' around waiting and waiting and waiting for the perfect moment that just never arrives?_

She took a deep breath and looked herself in the mirror. _You're a human aren't ya? Round and fat and hairy! A flawed, bumbling bundle of impulsiveness, shoving your way through a short but action-packed life. Sure we humans make all sorts of mistakes, but it's the only way to get the job done! Yessir!_

Turning around, she pulled at an annoying tangle in her hair. _Still…can't just come out and ask it can I?_ And then a thought occurred to her.

Setting the comb aside, she walked over to Xan. "By the way, I've been thinking…"

"You always are." Another hint of a smile, along with a look that made her imagine he could see the gears spinning overtime in her head. _Guess those aren't hard to notice._

"Yeah, yeah. I've been thinking that Shar-Teel's probably gonna' keep pullin' stunts like she did last night. Now, I know in a perfect world the abject horror on your face wouldn't be considered 'leading her on,' but she seems to kinda take it that way."

Xan cringed slightly and nodded. "She has a…strange outlook on things."

"Well, I think you ought to just tell her that you have no interest in women and get it out of the way. I figure that'd be the kindest way to let her down, ya know?"

Xan's frown had returned, and a look of dread was growing on his face.

"Heck, she might even surprise you and immediately move on to trying ta find the perfect guy for ya." _Yup. I'm totally talking about Shar-Teel here. Ha!_

Deepening dread, and now trepidation in his widening brown eyes. He took a deep breath, as if he were about to leap from a very tall cliff.

"Now granted, Ess-Tee's probably not the match-making type, but you never know until you get it out in the open, right? She's obviously-"

Gentle fingers suddenly slid up against the side of Imoen's face, cupping her cheek. Then her words were cut off by slender lips; a warm, firm presence against her mouth. Her eyes widened as Xan pressed close and she felt breath against her cheek, but somehow her lips ended up curling into a smug smirk against his. _Oh wow! Fishing expedition successful!_

She had just begun to relax and return the kiss -a gentle, smirking nibble- when he pulled back and stood up. Opening her eyes, she found him nervously looking down at her. Looked like he might turn into a bird and flit away at any moment, if he had the spell ready to do that. Maybe he did. But he managed to speak instead. "I hope that makes it clear," Xan whispered, "where my interests lie."

Imoen nodded slightly, fire in her cheeks. "Ya. I just thought…I mean, in Candlekeep there were some monks who were only interested in each other and one of them once told me…well that…" _Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! You've got a beautiful elf an inch from your nose, and he just kissed you!_

She silenced herself by reaching out, pulling his head down as best she could and pressing her lips to his. Not exactly a moment out of a storybook; for a time they were both stiff and shy, fingers and lips fumbling.

Breaths passed between them and they gradually relaxed, chest to chest, her hand at his face now and the delicate shape of his cheekbones traced beneath her fingertips. Her other arm slid around his waist again and clung on tight. Thick raindrops splattered against the window nearby as the morning drizzle turned into a heavy shower.

Didn't matter. Any thoughts of going out this morning were suddenly forgotten.

* * *

"It's a shame," Garrick mused. "I keep thinking that any day now I'll hear it."

"Would think you wouldn't care to hear the haunting song of a fey creature," Ashura replied with a slight smirk.

He shot her an annoyed look across the table. "Wish you'd stop reminding me of that."

An open, placating hand. "Sorry."

"And it's different! They say the elven ghost is forever morning a lost love. Not to mention that it's one of the big attractions in the city, along with the Wide and the Hall of Wonders. You can't say you've truly experienced the Gate until you've heard the ghost's song."

"Yuppers!" the halfling girl beside him piped up. "I've heard the pretty lady sing. Might be good that she doesn't do it all the time. It was so sad! Had me bawling my eyes out in no time!" The halfling was a friend Imoen had recently made; a local thief named Alora who had helped her in the Hall of Wonders. Chipper and friendly, if a bit annoying at times. It also seemed a little strange to Ashura that a professional thief would wear bright purple clothes and dye her hair an eye-catching shade of violet. Odd that none of the thieves she knew had the good sense to wear black.

Ashura gave the taproom of the Elfsong a sweep of her eyes. Not exactly the sort of place she'd consider a tourist attraction, despite the fine food and the stuffed beholder. It was midday now and the sparse highbite crowd wasn't too rowdy, but every night there seemed to be at least one barroom brawl, and she'd already seen a dead body get dragged out and dumped in the street (though Shar-Teel had been involved there.) Also it was fairly clear that most of the patrons were either pirates, smugglers or prostitutes. Everyone in the establishment seemed to walk about armed, and tended to keep their hands close to their weapons, especially when they were on their way to one of the upstairs rooms.

All told it was a fairly sleazy place, which had suited them fine enough so far. A good, dimly lit little hole to hide Entar Silvershield's 'kidnapped' daughter. Ashura wanted to wash her hands of that whole business, but the girl kept approaching her, usually to ask questions about her dead brother.

Garrick was following her gaze. "Of course it would be nice if the ghost sang in a cleaner inn."

"It has its charm." At one of the more populated tables Shar-Teel was taunting a particularly nasty group of people; pirates judging by the wind-burnt faces, dreadlocked hair and excessive tattoos worn by men and women both. A tall, broad man with a flat nose that had obviously been reset a dozen times lurched to his feet, sending the stool that had barely contained his bulk tumbling over.

Shar-Teel immediately gave him a shove that nearly sent him falling, and then two of his companions were fighting desperately to grip his arms and hold him back. Soon the pirates were chattering amongst themselves, giddy and making bets on the inevitable duel. _This will be what…her fourth fight picked in the Elfsong?_

Ashura wondered if this one would survive. Shar-Teel's first victim had agreed to some rules and left with a few cuts and a lighter coinpurse after a swordfight out on the street, as had the third. The second man had just attacked Shar-Teel outright when she taunted him, and the bloodstains were still visible on the hardwood floor near the bar.

Garrick shook his head. "I'd still prefer a place with less knife marks and more clean sheets. Maybe a fur rug."

Meeting his eye, Ashura smiled. "Like that idea. A luxury suite we can just hole up in for a few days. Or weeks." She'd heard that the Helm and Cloak was a nicer establishment. Of course they still had to wait for-

Something heavy and clinking struck the tabletop and she turned, looking up into familiar almond eyes that gleamed in the lamplight. _Well speak of the devil. And about bloody time._

"Promised I'd deliver, didn't I?" Coran asked.

Ashura placed her hand on the bag of coins and swiftly pulled it to her, glancing around to see if any of the local cutthroats had noticed. All eyes seemed to be on Shar-Teel and the pirate as they headed for the door, still exchanging taunts while the spectators followed.

"The mayor of Beregost was happy to pay, despite the smell," Coran added with a pleased grin as he straddled a stool next to Alora. His smile was just getting broader and broader a she looked over at the halfling. "And isn't this a nice surprise!" He reached over and casually ruffled Alora's short violet hair. "If it isn't my favorite rapscallion in all of Baldur's Gate!"

Alora stuck her lips out. "Hrmp!" she muttered. "Why do people always gotta' treat me like a little kid?"

Coran's grin didn't falter. "I am well aware that you're a full-grown hin woman," he said, " _and_ a rapscallion. The two things aren't mutually exclusive." He swept a hand across the table. "Just like how even after Garrick sees forty winters I'll still call him a 'lad.'"

As always a genuinely hurt look formed on Garrick's face. "Hey!"

"Oh hush," Coran teased. "How I'd love to have skin like yours." A dramatic sigh. "Guess I'd have to turn back a century and a hundred-thousand cups of wine for that."

Ashura glanced from Coran to Alora. "You two know each other?" There seemed to be a story or two there.

"But of course," Coran said. "How could I not know the second-greatest thief in The Gate? We rubbed elbows on many a night, usually seeking out the same gems. She would always claim she was just 'curious' to see what people kept in their cabinets."

Instead of taking the bait Alora simply giggled. "Yuppers. Had my fun, though I'm nothing compared to the greatest thief in the Gate! I hear it's this newcomer named Imoen."

"Hmph. I haven't been away _that_ long."

As they talked Ashura gave the little sack Coran had handed her a peak. The glint of gold rather than silver, and a hefty amount of it too. She allowed herself a smile. This, and what she had taken in the Cloakwood was more than enough to live in comfort for a good long while. Notions of a nice royal suite in one of the finer inns in town came to her. She'd drag Garrick up there, barricade the door, and hopefully that would be that. A few tendays -or even a month- of just eating, sleeping, drinking and rolling around in the sheets. No adventures, no foolish sodding 'heist' schemes, no strange dark powers, and hopefully no assassins.

"Coran!" A stern voice cut through the banter and the daydreams, and Ashura looked up to see a furious woman with thick golden locks stomp her way through the common room. She was wearing a red dress with the type of elegantly sewn scrollwork that implies enchantment, along with a stiff cloak. There was a striking beauty to the woman's heart-shaped face, even with dark bags hanging prominently beneath her eyes.

The easy grin on Coran's face died a swift death and he actually cringed away from the approaching woman. "Uh…Brielbara. What a pleasant…"

"Coran, you _coward!_ How long have you been back in the city? And you didn't seek us out?"

"I just arrived!" he protested. "And you were the one who told me to run the last time!" He pitched his voice high. "'Coran, it's my husband! He must have tracked us down. Flee! Get out of here as fast as you can!' Remember?"

Her glare didn't falter. "That was a year ago. Much has changed." An accusing finger stabbed at him. "Much that you could have assisted with, if you had bothered to seek me out. Or at least write!"

"I thought our parting was-"

"Coran, your daughter is _dying_! And it's your fault!"

His eyes went wide and his mouth fell open. "I have a daughter?!"

* * *

The bedchamber certainly smelled of sickness, the stench of dried vomit and soiled linens barely kept at bay by strong incense. Windows were shuttered and curtains pulled tight, the afternoon sun held back in favor of a softly glowing cantrip. Brielbara held the faint ball of light above a wooden crib, the tiny occupant within swaddled up so much by blankets that it was impossible to make its form out. Just a little sleeping face peaked through the cloth, eyes dark and sunken. There was a jaundice-yellow tone to the infant's skin, and despite being tightly wrapped up tremors would run through the child from time to time.

Coran loomed over the crib as well, one hand absently reaching down to touch the blanket. He managed to uncover a tiny hand and rubbed it with his fingertip, but the infant didn't stir.

"I've been using sleeping spells," Brielbara explained with a hollow voice. "If I don't she screams and cries herself to sleep. And she's grown so very weak." She reached down, carefully peeling the knitted cap from the infant's brow and revealing a shock of dark hair with a red tint to it, along with gently pointed ears. "You may have 'escaped' just in time, but when my husband saw that the baby was a half-elf he put it all together easily enough. Then he placed a curse on the child."

Imoen shook her head. "A…deadly curse? How can anyone do that to a _baby_?"

"'She is not of my blood,' Yago told me. 'So what does it matter?'"

"People go quite blind with rage when they perceive such an…intimate betrayal," Xan stated nearby, his voice dispassionate. "You would be sad to learn how often we Greycloaks are called on to investigate such a scene, even ones where the children are caught in the middle. Usually there is a bloody murder-weapon involved rather than a slow-acting curse, of course. But typically when there is a murdered woman or child there is also a jilted man to track down." He turned and looked at Coran. "A consequence our carefree friend likely never thought of. Truly, it is a wonder he was not killed by a jealous husband years ago."

"What's her name?" Coran asked, ignoring the jab. He still hadn't taken his eyes off the swaddled child.

"Namara."

"Like the Sword That Never Sleeps?"

"I just thought it was a pretty name."

"It is. It is."

"If I can obtain Yago's spellbook," Brielbara went on, "I'm sure I can find a way to reverse the curse."

"I'm guessing that's not so easy?" Ashura asked.

Brielbara gave an exhausted shake of her head. "I thought of attacking him myself. He's hired two tiefling bodyguards, though. Dangerous mercenaries, from what I've heard. And he's been living in a cabin on the bottom deck of the Low Lantern. In the daytime he's wary, and at night the brothel-ship cruises around the bay."

Imoen blanched. "A brothel-ship?"

"Yes. He's _enjoying_ the last of our savings." A tired shake of her head. "I don't care. I simply want to lift the curse."

Coran placed a hand on her shoulder, his eyes still on the crib. "We'll bring you his spellbook. I promise. And we'll make him pay."

She slapped his hand away. "Spare me, you worthless little rake! You can buy the book from him for all I care. Or dress up as a woman, seduce him with those pretty lips of yours and steal it in the night. I don't need vengeance! I just want my daughter whole!"

* * *

It was the fading hour of twilight when they made their way along the docks, the sky a pale blue and the winds gentle. Good, clear weather for sailing. Overlooked by two sturdy sea towers, the outer walls of the city opened to reveal the choppy waves of the great river, the harbor looking much like a massive bite that bad been taken out of the city long ago. The call of gulls and the smell of dead fish hung constantly in the air, cobbles beneath their feet weathered and slick from the morning's rain, peppered here and there with fresh bird shit.

They were a small party: Ashura at the lead, flanked by Garrick, Coran, Imoen, Xan and Skie. Bows and helmets had been left behind at the Elfsong, though they were still dressed more for battle than a night on the town, Ashura in her chainmail and all but Xan and Imoen in leathers. Swords and daggers hung at their belts along with many potion vials.

'Three thieves working together,' Imoen had suggested earlier, 'should be able to steal that book no-problem!' Skie had been happy to help but blanched at the word 'thief,' explaining that she had never stolen a thing in her life. 'Well, you were able to sneak in and out of your estate a bunch of times right? That's got to count for something!'

Skie wasn't so certain, but she seemed eager to tag along. Eldoth had been very dubious at the notion of her leaving the Elfsong, though. 'A terrible idea,' he had said with a scoff. 'Your father will have men out searching for you.'

It had actually earned him a stern glare from the young heiress, as she planted her fists on her hips. 'The whole point was to get me out of that cage my father built for me, right? Well, I'm not going to trade one cage for another. I'll go where I please.' Eldoth had been taken aback, his look darkening slightly before the ready smile returned and he tried to argue that he was simply concerned for her safety. In the end he had huffed a bit and let her go.

Xan and Imoen had been walking close the whole way since they left the Elfsong, exchanging whispered comments and even (much to Ashura's surprise,) a smile or two. About time, as far as Ashura was concerned. Imoen had always insisted that she had a curse when it came to guys, but by Ashura's reckoning it had been a mostly self-inflicted. Her sister had always had a few too many romantic notions, always pining for some sort of perfect moment and happily telling Ashura about her latest crush without actually _doing_ anything. _Glad she might be over that. Give them another year and she may actually loose her virginity too._

Then again Xan was an elf. What was it old Winthrop had always said? _'Moon elves take a full season just to finish their tea. And that's nothing compared to sun elves. Why do you think you never see a sun elf? 'Cause they all went out for highbite a century ago. Give 'em a few more decades and maybe they'll come back.'_

They crossed a track set up for cargo carts that ran along the harbor street, nearing a lamp post at a wide, sturdy pier where the sign of the Low Lantern swayed. The three-masted frigate bobbed in the water beyond, painted an eye-catching shade of red.

A small crowd milled about atop the pier and on the deck of the ship, mostly men, a few in fine clothes but many more dressed like simple laborers. Here and there walked dangerous, hard-eyed sorts, but generally the patrons appeared to be young men setting out together to spend their idle cash or week's wages on a night of gambling, drinking and whoring; boasting, bragging, and jostling each other along the way.

"Of course helping _you_ would lead us to a brothel," Imoen quipped as they walked along the dock, but Coran just ignored her. The pensive look that had hung on his face after first setting eyes on Namara hadn't left. After a little silence Imoen gave the elf a worried look and a pat on the shoulder. "You're supposed to respond with: 'Hey, it's a casino too' or something."

Coran shook his head a little. "Sorry…it's just…"

"I understand. Just a little surprised to see you like this. Seems like even in the worst times you're always grinning. Like…even when people are dying and the floor's slick with blood, and arrows are whistling and all that, you still just give us that toothy smile and say: 'Life is adventure or nothing.'"

He tried to smile at her, but it turned into a grimace, then a shrug.

Raucous chatter greeted them as they walked the wharf and crossed the plank walkway to the gently rolling deck of the Low Lantern. A few little clumps of people stood here and there at the railing, drinking and watching the waves roll as they joked and laughed. From the sound of it there was a considerably larger crowd below deck.

One by one they climbed down a crude but sturdy wooden ladder and into the cavernous hull of the great ship, lit by gently bobbing lanterns as well as the light spilling in from tiny circular windows. The floor down here was laid out like a great sitting room, with long couches and tables where a few patrons lounged over drinks and wooden trays of food, near a large hatch that led to a lower deck. A second area was visible through an open doorway: a crowded, smoky gaming room filled with high tables of finely carved and polished wood where the gambling wheels spun or dice rolled across a velvet surface.

The calls of the dealers competed with the general din, words that reminded Ashura of the Nashkel fair. 'You there lad! You look like the lucky sort!'

'Take your chance with Lady Tymora!'

'Come in poor. Walk out rich!'

The men who ran the games all dressed in bright, gaudy clothes, working to catch the eye as well as the ear. Women who Ashura guessed were prostitutes sashayed from table to table, clad in frail silks and satins that were just as bright; dresses that covered more skin than one would expect but bared the shoulders and appeared ready to fall away at any moment. Their hair was piled up and woven into elaborate crowns, and they presented their best smiles as they went about clasping the arms or shoulders of the clientele to exchange flirty whispers, often swiftly moving along to another table or man. Overlooking it all were two imposing men in studded leather jerkins that matched the brown hue of the cabin walls, armed with short swords and still as statues save their sweeping eyes.

Ashura's group found a quiet spot on one of the couches and sat down, cautiously eyeing the crowd. It was only a moment before a woman carrying an empty wooden tray traipsed up to them, a warm smile on her face and her bodice and blouse generously open in a style that announced: ' _Tavern Wench!_ ' And then some. "Welcome to the Low Lantern, ladies and gentlemen," she cooed in a practiced voice that easily carried over the din. "What can I get for you this eve?"

"Just a round of ales," Ashura grunted, waving a hand dismissively.

"You sure honey?" She looked to the others. "We've a fine selection of seafood, and as wide a variety of drinks as you'll find in The Gate." No one else spoke. "Bitter black alright?"

"Bitter's fine."

The woman shook her head from side to side. _Tut-tut_. Her eyes slid over Xan and Coran, and then they lingered on Garrick. "And just so you know, I'm on the menu too." She did a little twirl. "Any of you studs just ask, and we can discuss a trip to the lower deck. Long as your ladies approve, of course." That last bit came out like an afterthought. Coran didn't even look up from the table, though Garrick stared wide-eyed, seemingly hypnotized by her cleavage. The server gave him a wink before turning around and strutting off and down the stairs.

"When the ales arrive try to just sip a little," Ashura suggested. She tapped Garrick on the shoulder. "Especially you. We need our wits about us."

He started slightly, then turned and gave her a bright smile. "Yes, sir."

She rolled her eyes. Looking over to Coran, Ashura saw that he was still staring at the tabletop, a fingertip absently tracing around and around. It was so strange to see him this serious. Sad even, eyes far-away like Xan's often got at quiet moments. And this was as far from a quiet moment as you could get: drunk men jostling each other, women's sultry laughter, the clink of cups and the perpetual tap-tap-tap of the ball that spun on the year's turning wheel. And now the dealers, bartenders and serving girls were cupping their hands, all announcing that the mooring would soon be reeled in.

"Last chance off the ship! Last chance to leave the party!" they all shouted.

There was a giddy feeling in the air now, though many of the gamblers where shuffling towards the exit. Most seemed to be the more sensibly dressed men, along with nearly all of the women. They looked to be mostly merchants and artisans, all still sober enough to realize they might have things to do in the morning. The rest of the crowd seemed eager to stay, well-dressed young men tapping each other on the shoulder and joking back and forth about what a fine night it was for a cruise, and wondering aloud who would be first to 'dare the rigging.' But in the whirlwind of excitement Coran just stared down absently at his fingers, then at his ale when the buxom serving woman placed it before him.

"So," Imoen whispered. "Looks like time for a little scouting? Yago's rooming on the bottom deck right? With two tiefling bodyguards. Both women, one a warrior and one a mage. And that's all we know?"

Ashura nodded. "The ship's not that big. Won't be hard to find."

Getting to her feet, Imoen pulled Skie along with her. "We'll ask around about tieflings. Shouldn't make anyone too suspicious. 'Oh! I hear there's some devil-ladies living here. Do they really have horns and tails?'" She looked over at Coran. "You could ask some of the women that?" she suggested.

He nodded absently. "I suppose I could."

Imoen shook her head. "Would think asking you to flirt with prostitutes and hit them up for information would be the easiest thing in the world."

Coran gave her a weak smile. "Suppose it's just not that kind of night." He took a deep breath, rising to his feet and looking around. Something changed in his face: far from a return to his usual, cheerful self, but it reminded Ashura of the times he had set out with Kivan to scout out a trail. "Alright then! Let's rescue my daughter."


	48. Ectropy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning that there's a lot of raunchy stuff in this chapter, and not really of the romantic or sexy variety. Our heroines are infiltrating a brothel, after all. Some stuff you might find there is downright gross.

_ "What can change the nature of a man?"  _ –Ravel Puzzlewell

* * *

Beneath the raucous gaming floor of the Low Lantern lay a more subdued deck, dimly lit by hooded lamps and heavy with smoke and murmuring voices. Stained throw-rugs lined the floor, and upon them rested the sort of round, roughhewn tables you'd find in any dingy tavern from the Sword Coast to Aglarond. There were two long bars at separate walls of the room, both boasting shelves stacked to the ceiling with kegs and all manner of bottles, and the oaken pillars of the ship's masts divided the deck into a couple of sections.

Unlike the patrons above who jostled each other around the turning wheels and dice games, most here were content to sit at their stools, nursing drinks and smoking pipes. Some of the men chatted among themselves, sharing a low laugh or two.

Between the tables and the little clusters of men flitted women in gauzy skirts and halters, exchanging whispers with the patrons before moving on, though often they would settle on a stool or in a lap. While there had been women doing the same dance on the floor above, up there they had been quick and flighty, flirting and trying to move the party (and the gambling coins,) along. Here was where the whores seemed to truly ply their trade, offering bold touches, enticing whispers, and even glimpses of soft flesh spilling out from their loose silks as they negotiated prices and conditions.

Through the heavy smoke and the haphazard tables Imoen tried to walk nonchalantly, though she sure felt like a sore thumb. At least she and Skie didn't get any leers and catcalls; instead the men just frowned or glanced at them curiously. Seemed they just weren't wearing the proper uniforms for that.

If Skie was uncomfortable she hid it well, just smiling her most innocent smile and sweeping the room with curious eyes as she walked towards the bar. She even put two fingers to her smirking lips and stifled a coy titter when she spied a couple on the far side of one of the masts who looked to be doing more than negotiating. Imoen followed Skie's look, then turned away awkwardly when she realized _exactly_ what the woman was holding firmly in her hand. There were a few other couples like that here and there, exchanging caresses or kisses in the dark corners while the patrons ignored them.

Arriving at the bar, Skie casually slipped atop a stool and Imoen followed, sitting down next to a reclining young man. He was lean, without an ounce of fat on him and dressed in an outfit that displayed that fact proudly: an open vest of bright silk and form-fitting trousers slit along the sides. Barely sparing a glance at Imoen, the man looked out at the room with hooded eyes and a coy grin, all doffed up with every blonde hair immaculately in place.

Still, Imoen gave him a wave, a smile, and a friendly: "Hi there." In return he just glanced over at her with a raised eyebrow. After an awkward pause she asked: "I was wondering if you could tell me-"

He cut her off with a raised hand. "I'm not paid to tell, honey. No offence. I'm working tonight, _not_ chatting. And," just a glance at her before he turned back to the open room, "you don't really seem like you're looking for my kind of work."

She scrunched up her face. "Oh. Sorry. It's just that you see…" Her voice trailed off as the young man simply pushed up off the stool and sauntered away, passing some tables and approaching a lone fellow in a dark corner. He bent forward when he reached the other man, resting his hands on the tabletop and leaning in to whisper.

Imoen shook her head. _How rude!_ Then again, despite reading every raunchy book she could get her hands on in Candlekeep, it occurred to her that she really didn't know the first thing about bordello etiquette. If such a thing existed at all.

Nearby, Skie was having better luck with the barkeep. Eyes wide and swishing every-which-way, she clasped her fingers together and fidgeted excitedly as the man watched her. "Wow! I've never been on the high seas before! Everything always shifting under your feet is kind of unnerving, but you must be used to that sort of thing, huh?"

The bartender, a stiff man with a weathered face and thinning, slicked-back hair, shrugged at her. "Just a river actually. And we only sail around the bay. It's really nothing like the high seas."

"Spoken like someone who knows!" Skie reached out and gave the man's thick arm a pat. "Bet you have some tales to tell." The bartender shrugged, though Imoen could see some pride on his face. "A riverboat is thrilling enough." She leaned in closer, with big, inquisitive eyes. "And I hear you've got tieflings here? Real life devil-folk! What are they like?"

The barkeep sighed and shook his head. "Look lass," he eventually said, "I'll give you some advice. You really don't want to go acting like a wide-eyed princess down here. Easiest way to get your purse cut, or worse."

Skie looked shocked and placed a hand on her mouth. Her voice came out hushed. "Oh. You're probably right…"

"And second, you _really_ don't want to get close to the pair of tieflings that live on this ship. Maybe your head's all full of stories 'bout how every demonspawn has a secret heart of gold, but let me tell you: these two ain't that type. You'll never meet a deadlier pair of fork-tongued bitches this side of the Abyss, and I'd keep a deck apart of 'em if I was you."

"Oh my!" Skie squeaked. "What makes them so dangerous?"

The barkeep rolled his eyes. "You don't need to know. Just stay back, and avoid the cabin at the aft of the ship. And run like the hells are nipping at your pretty arse if you ever hear one of 'em use the word 'entropy.'"

Skie shook her head and pressed forward. "But now I'm really curious. What's so special about entropy?"

He opened his mouth to respond, then gave a pointed look to his right, shook his head and walked away, apparently finding something pressing to investigate on the far side of the bar. "Speak of the fucking devils," Imoen thought she heard the barkeep mutter under his breath as he passed her.

Both girls turned their heads, and sure enough the 'devils' were climbing the steps from the lower deck. Imoen had assumed that the pair of tieflings would be siblings, being as how rare such creatures are in general, but if these two were sisters they were about as different as sisters can get. The woman who walked slightly in the lead was tall and broad, dressed in thick black leathers buttressed by lacquered plates at the shoulders, forearms and calves. Curled horns like those of a ram crowned her bald head, and her skin was as red as you'd expect a devil's to be, marked with yellow diamond patterns down the center of her brow between featureless white eyes, devoid of irises or pupils. A longsword hung at her hip, the guard made of elaborate steel basketwork.

Her companion was far shorter and slimmer, clad in a loose red-on-gold dress slit boldly down one side. She appeared more human as well, with a faint hint of sharpened horns peaking from her long auburn hair, her skin an ashy grey with mottled spots and her eyes normal beyond a red tinge. Although, unlike the taller tiefling, she did sport a long, slender tail that swished behind her as she walked.

Both women glided up the bar, slow and languid, taking their time to find stools at the far end. Once she was seated, the tiefling with ram's horns slammed her gloved hand against the surface of the wood, making the whole bar shake and rattling glasses. "Oh Lashan dear," she called with a deep, smoky voice, "are you hiding from us again at the far side of the bar?"

The bartender managed to turn a cringe into a shrug as he turned towards the new guests. "You never order drinks," he pointed out.

The tiefling with pointed horns leaned forward. "Isn't a barkeep's true job to keep good company?" she asked in a teasing, musical tone. "Isn't being a gracious host far more important than pouring drink down people's gullets in the rush towards oblivion?"

"Aye," Ram-Horns agreed with a gleam in her empty eyes. "If anything you are here to gently guide them down into the darkness. A task you should be proud of."

"If you want 'good company' just hire one of them," the barkeep protested with a wave towards the room, though he did obediently walk towards the demonic women.

"Aw," Pointy-Horns gave a mocking pout. "But we _like_ you Lashal. You try so vainly to keep order in this," she gave the cabin her own dismissive gesture, "sinking morass."

"It will make the moment all the sweeter," Ram-Horns put in, "when you inevitably give in and slip down into the murky darkness yourself."

"How do you think he will go, Desreta?"

"My guess is he'll start dipping into his own poison, and eventually drown in it, my dear Vay-ya."

"Or finally fall for one of the sweet young things he's always watching from a cold distance. She'll take him for all he's worth, and then…"

The barkeep was glaring at them with narrow eyes, his hand at his belt.

"Or he'll finally lose his temper and draw that dagger his hand keeps flashing to. Then we'll finally have our way with him."

With a slow breath the barkeep straightened and let his hand slip from his side.

Pointy-Horns gestured with a clawed fingertip. "But for now you could just keep us company, dear Lashal."

"Much better company than that boorish little man down below," Ram-Horns added. "Here he is in a hedonist's playground, and night after night he does the same deed, in the same manner, with the same girl. Her constant yelping is driving me mad."

Imoen and Skie shared a look. _Hmm. So the bodyguards are here at the bar, and Yago's down there, all 'distracted.'_ It seemed like now might be the best time.

The other tiefling laughed. "I don't know. I enjoy the music. There's such fury in him. Such desperate emptiness."

The bigger tiefling gave a shrug. "Perhaps. I'm simply tired of the screeching waking me from a good, deep fugue. I've a mind to help hasten their journey to the void."

"Now that would not be good for business, would it my dear Desreta? We must always keep our contracts. Am I not a child of Dispater?"

Desreta scoffed. "Distant offspring, if that. Far more likely that you were grandsired by some pretentious imp."

Scooting back from the bar, Imoen gestured for Skie to follow, and they both gave the tieflings a wide berth as they slipped between tables, stools and flirting patrons, working their way to the hatch at the far end of the cabin. They were a few paces away when the tiefling with ram's horns threw her head back, sniffed the air and turned on her barstool before leaping off. In a blink she had closed in on the girls, looming over them as they turned with a start.

"What's this?" Desreta asked, peering down and placing her hands on her hips. The scent of black lotus wafted from her lips and prickled at Imoen's nose. "More interesting company than that frosty barkeep, I think."

Vay-ya had slithered up beside her. "Agreed," she said, and Imoen noticed that her tongue was indeed forked. "They look so out of place; two practically dressed girls down here among the desperate dregs and whores. And they seemed to be…slinking about? I believe there's a story here."

"No story miss," Imoen said in as relaxed a voice as she could manage. "We were just curious." She glanced over at Skie for backup, but the girl seemed to be doing a far worse job keeping her composure. Her lower lip was quivering and she looked like she was holding back a shriek.

It didn't help that Desreta had placed a hand upon the hilt of her sword and Vay-ya was reaching for a wand that hung from her belt. "I don't think-" Desreta began.

"Oh come now!" a bold, low voice chided them as a blur of green and purple slipped between the pair of tieflings. "You've never seen two curious young women sneaking to the bedrooms of a brothel before?" Both tieflings took an involuntary step back and held onto their weapons, startled by the elf that had materialized out of nowhere.

"The fairer sex hides it better than us blatant perverts," Coran added with a grin on his face, "but often times they want a good peak at things just the same."

With the tieflings momentarily distracted, Imoen took Skie's arm and they both began to back away. It only took the nimble girls a beat or two to recede to the stepladder, and then walk backwards down the steps. Before she had slipped all the way down, however, Imoen noticed that the tieflings had recovered, both sweeping in and placing hands upon Coran's shoulders.

"Bandit Eyes!" she thought she heard Vay-ya call. "We've heard so much of you!"

And then Imoen was out of sight and earshot, down on the lower level of the ship. She turned and bent forward a bit, whispering. "Xan? Can you hear me?" They had set up the communication spell before Imoen and the other 'scouts' had set off.

_ Of course _ a dry voice replied from nowhere in particular.

"We got away from the tieflings, but they got suspicious, and I think Coran might be in trouble. He helped us distract them, but now he's got their full attention. Full, creepy, predatory, devil-lady attention!"

_ (Sigh.) Of course he would draw  _ that _sort of thing. I assume he is very pleased with himself._

* * *

Shooting up from his seat like something had bitten him, Xan turned towards the hatch that led to the lower decks of the Lantern and gave a wave of his hand before marching forward. "Come on."

"Scout time's over?" Ashura asked as she caught up with him.

"Indeed," Xan said with a nod, moving as fast as he could without drawing undue attention. His sudden tension had Ashura on edge, and his next words weren't exactly encouraging. "Our friends managed to evade the tieflings, but apparently Coran is now 'distracting' them, and they appear to be in a dangerous mood. I suspect everything is about to go horribly, horribly wrong. As usual."

Well, there were five of them and only two tieflings, and the ship hadn't exploded yet. There was still a chance to deal with the situation quietly. _Who am I trying to fool?_ Ashura thought as she reached the steps that led to the next deck. _When in the Hells have things ever gone quietly?_

* * *

Bright, colorful curtains hung on dowels along the corridor of the Lantern's lower deck, some pulled tight and others open wide. Each marked the brothel's many bunks; just a space with a bed and perhaps a table really, partitioned by thin wooden walls and the curtains. Where the veils were thrown open the beds were empty, but more were shut, and as Imoen and Skie crept by they caught glimpses through half-shut or translucent curtains of flesh in a wide variety of hues and activities, accompanied by laughter, cooing cries, and animal grunts.

A haze of smoke wafted out from many of the bunks as well, carrying the smell of strong incense, though Imoen also smelled scented oils, along with a tinge of the black lotus. And of course the smell of sweat.

No privacy down here at all, though the residents hardly seemed to care. As they walked along the corridor in search of Yago (by Brielbara's description a slightly tubby man with a bald spot and black hair,) a man proudly strutted out from one of the bunks, just giving them a slightly quizzical look as he passed by through the hall and straightened his clothes a bit.

Skie was leaning in and peering through one of the curtains rather boldly when Imoen tapped her on the shoulder and they shared a whisper. "The barkeep said the room at the aft of the ship, right?" she asked as quietly as she could.

Skie nodded. "I think so."

Imoen looked around briefly. _Darn nautical terms. Oh!_ She pointed back down the corridor. "Then it should be over there. Maybe the big curtain at the end of the hall?" With that they both quietly backtracked a few steps, going around the stepladder and over to the larger set of drapes.

There were noises coming from the other side of the curtains, much like the others. After a deep breath, Imoen turned to Skie. "Well," she whispered, "this'll be an easy break-in at least. No lock ta pick. Hopefully his spellbook will be sitting in a prominent spot. Though um…do we really want to-" And then her eyes bulged wide and her hand shot to her mouth, stifling a gasp.

There, silently standing a pace behind her and Skie and dressed as brightly as ever, stood Niklos the guildhouse courier. The young thief gave her an apologetic cringe and a little wave. "Hi there ladies," he whispered.

"Ack!" Imoen hissed back. "You scared the bejeebees out of me!"

Niklos gave her a bashful look and rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry miss. Just popping in to deliver a message."

"Could it have waited? This is the _worst_ possible time! And not um…not cause of what you might think. We're here on business." She made a face once the words had tumbled from her mouth. "And not _that_ type of business. Here to steal something."

"It's true," Skie added. "Though you might not want to use that word so openly…" she suggested.

"Yeah yeah yeah." Imoen sighed.

"Apologies, but Ravenscar waits for no one," Niklos whispered. "Sent me to tell you that he's ready to discuss the 'big job.' Meet him in his office as soon as possible."

Imoen nodded. "We'll do that. Though it might be a while. We're on a bloody _ship_ after all. And we've got a baby to save. Urm…long story."

Niklos nodded as if that were a perfectly normal thing to say. "Soon as you can though." And with that, and a very red face, the young thief walked to the stairway and made his way up.

Another sigh as Imoen shook her head. The moaning beyond the curtain hadn't stopped. If anything it had intensified. "Maybe Yago'll fall asleep afterwards," she suggested. "That would be the best time to sneak in, right?"

Skie shook her head. "The tieflings could be back any moment. I say we chance it. Bet he's pretty distracted at the moment." There was a wicked gleam in her eye.

_ Sheesh, what kind of princess are you anyway?  _ Imoen shrugged. "Alrighty then. It has been a good half-tenday since I walked in on someone mid-coitus, after all. Might as well break the streak." With a gesture and a little hum she wrapped herself in the familiar shimmer of her invisibility spell while Skie downed a potion that had the same effect. Then, with stilled breath, she carefully parted the curtain and crept forward.

* * *

Distract the creepy devil-ladies so the girls can slip away.

That had been the plan, at least, and it had worked flawlessly. Maybe a little too much so. Trapped here against the bar with the two snake-tongued women right in his face and smelling of opiates and confidence, Coran was starting to feel a strange, tickling sensation.

_ Regret _ , he guessed. An unfamiliar feeling.

At first he had casually reached to his belt when the two had pressed him against the bar, but the ram-horned tiefling had closed her fingers around his wrist with a grip that would shame an iron golem, squeezing so hard that Coran was sure bones would crack.

"Be still now, Bandit Eyes," she purred teasingly. "We've heard how quick you can be." The pair shared a laugh and Coran forced himself to relax. When he did the grip became slightly less bone-threatening.

Slightly.

While he was held in place like that, the other tiefling dabbed a clawed fingertip against his cheekbone. It tickled a little. "Bandit Eyes, indeed! Oh, how our patron ranted and raved of you! The wife-thief. Father of his woman's accursed child. He told us to keep an eye out."

"They say you're a bit of a 'lady killer,'" the bigger tiefling said with a curl of her lip. "And there's at least some truth to that, is there not? Did Yago's wife tell you how she barely escaped with her life and suckling babe intact when he flew into his rage? Supposedly their entire house was leveled in a storm of arcane fire."

For his part Coran gave them his warmest smile as he wondered if his fingers could reach his lefthand dagger faster than Ram-Horns could snatch at him again.

"But though she escaped with her life," Pointed-Horns picked up, "her child…your child…was still doomed to die, correct? So you're here to exact revenge? Carve the heart out of your child's murderer? What a wonderfully bloody drama."

Ram-Horns gave Coran a squeeze that had him stiffening and twitching. "It's so delightful to meet a soul who leaves such ruin in his wake. Heedless and stumbling about as he shatters families and destroys lives, all with that most delightful of motivations: personal indulgence."

Coran's eyes narrowed. "It was never like-"

The clawed tip of the sharp-horned tiefling touched his lips. "Oh hush." And then he found he could not speak. "We appreciate your work. Be glad. Why, I've a mind to just send you down to Yago with your daggers still on you. Perhaps you'll succeed and get your petty vengeance. More likely he'll blast you to a smoking husk with one of his spells, before he finally kills himself with a lotus pipe and a rum bottle."

"No matter what," her partner immediately continued, "our true master always wins. Everything crumbles…falls into the void."

"And all we get is these poignant little moments where we can choose how best to push it along. So boooooooring waiting while fools hopelessly try to fix the world up, isn't it soul-sister?"

"But the choices are always so delightful. What would _you_ choose, wife-thief? Fun and play with us, or shall we send you to Yago?"

Coran's mouth fell open and he found that he could speak once more. "Fun, with two charming and beautiful ladies such as yourselves? That's a sort of invitation I've never turned down before."

"I would have guessed that," Pointed-Horns mused.

"But I'm afraid tonight I need to…need to…" And suddenly his tongue was heavy and thick, voice faltering. The tiefling mage was grinning at him with sharpened teeth as her index finger waggled from side to side.

Coran found himself following that claw-tip. Was it glowing? The woman was so much brighter than the dimming room around her. "No," she teased, "I asked what you _would_ choose, but if you've been paying attention you'd realize there was no choice at all. Only darkness. Only entropy. You will follow us _down_ for some fun in the hold. As sure as the rot of the universe. As sure as the void we shall all be scattered to one day. As sure as the death of all heat and the eternal darkness to follow."

Yes, her clawtip was definitely glowing, and all around the lamplight faded. All that shone was the chiseled face of the tiefling, the only thing in a dark, empty world. "Come now." She beckoned and turned towards the steps, and all thoughts of daggers evaporated as the grip on Coran's wrist let up and he followed, eyes fixed on the woman's swishing tail.

A literal tail. Coran found himself smugly grinning, remembering a delightful demon-spawned lass he had bedded in Waterdeep. Oh, the things a nimble tail could do! Eagerly, he followed now, eyes wide and hungry.

Something was nagging him though, somewhere at the back of his mind. Had there been a task? _Yes._ An important task, or so it had seemed. But what could be more important than a tiefling woman's tail?

"Shame those girls disappeared on us," the bigger tiefling muttered from somewhere behind him. "They were far prettier than this wretch."

The slightest of shrugs from Pointed-Horns' shoulders. "Go search for them then. They seemed more your type."

"I may just do that." Ram-Horns laughed. "A challenge, dear soul-sister. See if you can keep this one alive until I find you, hopefully dragging those two sneakabouts with me."

"I shall make the attempt, but you know the only thing guaranteed is the void. All things fall apart, you know. His parts, like all others." They were walking along a corridor now, lined with fluttering sheets. There were motions and moans behind the fabric, but Coran could not pry his eyes from the tiefling before him. Soon she guided him down yet another flight of steps and into a dark, empty hold.

_ I should turn back.  _ Coran found himself thinking. _There was something. Important._ His head shook a little as the woman turned towards him. What could there be? Besides that luscious pair of black lips? That gleaming dagger she had drawn and begun to play with? Those simmering crimson eyes? Even lovelier than the sirines…

He blinked. _The sirines!_ Yes, he remembered those…those monsters. Being trapped in his own head. The bed of bleached white bones, spread out across the pool. The empty skulls.

Another blink, and another memory came rushing to him, fighting the torpor that seemed to hold both muscles and mind. A foul-smelling bedroom. A cradle. Dark, sunken eyes on a too-small face. A face like a skull.

That little face. That little skull. His _daughter_.

Suddenly the torpor was gone, and with the lightheaded speed of a man suddenly freed of chains, Coran grasped the hilts of both daggers and yanked them from their sheathes.

* * *

Trying her darndest to look at anything _but_ the bare, hairy backside of the man who was on his knees and aggressively pumping away at a kneeling woman on the nearby bed, Imoen crept forward. _Creeping and feeling like a creep._ At least she knew that the spellbook wasn't hidden somewhere on the man. Provided this even _was_ Yago.

The room seemed to fit at least. It stunk of a lot of things, despair among them. There were empty bottles on every surface and in little clusters all along the floor that Imoen had to avoid kicking, some of them lying atop piles of greasy, discarded clothing, sheets and rags. Besides the despair there were several foul odors competing for top billing in the filthy little room: spilt beer, burnt cloth, urine, vomit, and unwashed bodies. She had no idea how anyone could stand five minutes in a place like this, let alone live here.

At least the pile of books proved to be easy enough to spot and approach, sitting between two empty rum bottles on a dresser by the bed. No locks, no alarms, and after a brief search she found there weren't even arcane wards. Peeling back a copy of _Sisters of Light and Darkness_ and another tome titled _The Red Ravens,_ she came upon a book with no title. A quick survey of the pages and she smiled to herself. Flowing arcane script and magical diagrams; after all the reading that she'd been doing recently she'd recognize them anywhere. Oddly enough, the handwriting was almost as neat as Xan's.

With a silent grin of triumph Imoen stood slightly and whirled around, the pilfered spellbook in hand. Mid-turn the book smashed into something unseen and sent a jolt through her arm.

"Owch!" a high-pitched voice cried right next to her. "Watch it!" Then there was a slight gasp as the invisible Skie realized what she had done.

The creaking of the cabin's bed immediately stopped and the man on his knees froze, then turned bleary, bloodshot eyes in the direction of the dresser. "What the hells?!" he asked in an accent that made Imoen vaguely think of the Moonsea.

The woman on her hands and knees in front of him had turned as well, tousled hair covering most of her face and eyes glaring sharply beneath it. "I heard it too," she breathed.

Imoen started scurrying for the exit. At least they were still invis-

" _Viauthis kret matok!_ " With the man's rumbling shout a flash of white light radiated out from his open palm, filling the bedroom and forcing Imoen to cover her eyes.

She blinked back most of the dancing spots, but some still hovered over her hand as vision returned. Hovered over her _visible_ hand.

She looked over at the bed and then immediately regretted it. Now there was a sight she'd never be able to unsee, potbelly and wilting little member and all. Still, she did her best to look up into the mage's eyes, put on an innocent smile, and wave.

"Um. Heya!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering what 'Big Job' Ravenscar wants to discuss with Imoen, you can find out in my short side-story: 'Now You See Me.' *Shameless self-promotion.*
> 
> And boy did I rewrite this chapter a million times. At first Desreta and Vay-ya were doing that thing where they had very different voices that played off each other, a bit like Mr. Croup and Mr. Vandemar from Neverwhere, but in the end I liked giving them basically the same personality that happens to alternate between using one mouth and then another. Soul-sisters indeed.


	49. It All Comes Apart

_ Dark were the waters _

_ Bright was the storm _

_ Crazed were the sea-devils _

_ Churning up from the foam _

-Darbrukk Syndylver, _Voyage of the Warmaiden_

* * *

After marching down the stepladder that led to the lower deck well ahead of Xan and Garrick, Ashura turned the corner at the bottom and nearly slammed into a woman about a head taller than her, dressed in black leathers and sporting red skin and curled horns that looked much like a ram's. They instantly placed hands on the hilts of their swords, sizing each other up through narrow eyes.

After a moment the tiefling slid a finger's length of steel from her sheath and spoke. "We've been meeting such strange girls tonight. I wonder if-" A scream of rage and pain from down the hall cut her off, followed almost instantly by a different set of shouts and cries from the other direction.

Glancing over her shoulder, Ashura saw the curtains at the end of the hall burst open, a familiar figure in pink and another in black and purple rushing through and bolting up the stepladder. They were followed an instant later by a furious-looking man with a potbelly, dressed only in a thin robe that he was struggling to belt.

She turned back towards the tiefling in time to witness Coran leap and roll out of a nearby hatch, followed by a streak of crackling flame. The arcane fire scorched the nearby ceiling black, a few embers floating down to one of the swaying partition sheets and threatening to set it alight.

_ I suspect everything is about to go horribly, horribly wrong. As usual. _ Shame that Xan was usually right.

Before Ram-Horns could react, Ashura had drawn her lefthand sword from its sheath and slammed the pommel into the tiefling's jaw. Ram-Horns reeled back with a pained gasp and a hand to her mouth, but she managed to keep her feet and whip her sword free, quick and fierce.

The slash whistled over Ashura's head as she ducked, biting a massive chunk of wood out of a nearby partition wall. From her crouch Ashura lunged and stabbed, but the tiefling's gloved fingers locked around the blade and _yanked_ with shocking strength. Agony shot through Ashura's left arm as it was nearly wrenched from its socket, and her sword flew from her fingers. The tiefling casually tossed the blade over her shoulder and grinned.

Another slash that turned into a feint, then Ram-Horns hefted her sword and chopped down just as swiftly, though Ashura managed to fully draw her righthand blade and catch the blow. More spikes of pain for her trouble, this time in her right arm, and she only managed to slow the blade, which struck one of her shoulder-plates with a sharp _ding_ and left a dent.

Through the boards above her head Ashura heard and felt a massive thunderclap, but she had more pressing concerns down here.

The scent of charcoal and black lotus struck her face as Ram-Horns pressed closer, trying to grapple in the tight corridor, dagger-sharp teeth clicking together as she bit down and barely missed Ashura's face. Ashura stamped and kicked, then iron fingers were locking around her leg, just below her knee. The grip was like nothing human, digging in and threatening to break bone, and then everything was a blur as Ashura found herself _flying_ through a set of curtains.

Her tailbone struck the cabin wall with a jolting crack, followed instantly by the back of her head, bright flashes filling her vision and the iron taste of blood welling up in her mouth. Then she hit the floor and slumped.

By the _Hells_ this bitch was strong! It was like wrestling with an ogre. _What I wouldn't give for a damn strength potion right now!_ Of course, there were _other_ sorts of potions on her belt.

There were screams both nearby and beyond the cabin walls as Ashura forced herself to her feet, Ram-Horns shrugging her way through the curtains at the same time. A gleeful grin full of fangs split the tiefling's face, then she launched another wide slash. With a pained gasp, Ashura managed to catch the blow with her own blade and steer it away from her neck and over her head. The next blow would have overwhelmed her, parry or no, had she not slipped all the way to floor, rolling under the splinters the tiefling tore from the wall. Ashura kicked her way to her feet from there, her foot catching a nearby dresser and knocking it to the floor between her and her foe.

The next great slash of the tiefling's sword was slowed by the nearby partition wall, tearing through in a shower of chunks but sloppy enough for Ashura to lock her sword with her opponent's and shove the arm away. At the same time Ashura twisted and lunged low, stabbing through leather and muscle at the tiefling's side and sending her stumbling back.

Ram-Horns clutched at the wound and they both paused and watched each other for a breath, the fallen dresser between them as Ashura glared and the tiefling grinned like a maniac. On the bed at the corner of the room a man and woman cowered, the sheet held out in front of them like a shield and their backs pressed to the wall. Their terrified screams had not let up from the start of the fight, though it was hard to notice over the rush of Ashura's heartbeat in her ears.

_ Terror. Good idea.  _ Focusing her glare and her mind's eye on her foe, Ashura called upon the power and fury within her, and an infernal heat bloomed from her chest and spread in waves through the room. She tried to bring it all to bear against the tiefling, but the couple's screams went up a pitch anyway.

When the waves of fear struck her, Ram-Horns threw her head back slightly and sniffed, and then her smile just curled back wider, showing gums along with fangs. "What's this?" she cackled. "You've the scent of Gehenna on you! How delightful!" Somewhere out in the hall there was a crackling noise.

Ashura couldn't help but grimace. Not the reaction she had hoped for.

* * *

Bleary, bloodshot eyes followed the girls as they pushed their way past the tavern tables, scurrying forward like they had a demon on their tails. A few of the more sober and wary patrons backed away. _Good on them! Clear a path!_ Imoen wasn't entirely sure where they were going, but the upper deck seemed best. Better than being trapped in close quarters with a vengeful mage at least.

Of course she probably could have gotten up there already if she double-timed it with her magic boots, but to the Hells if she was leaving Skie behind. _I already got us both into this mess by bopping her with this book._

The steps that led up to the gambling deck were all the way on the far side of the tavern floor, and furious chanting behind her gave Imoen the impression that they wouldn't be able to scramble up them in time. It was a chant that she recognized all too well, spoken long ago on the steps of the Friendly Arm Inn by Tarnesh, and more recently by the slaver lord Davaeorn.

"Lightning!" she shrieked, shoving Skie's shoulder and at the same time diving aside to roll between tables and tumbling stools. Crackling white filled the cabin and forced Imoen to squeeze her eyes shut, instantly feeling every hair raise on her body while an involuntary shiver ran through her. A deafening _crack_ -BOOM registered in her ears an instant later, followed by a rumble-roar that just kept rolling and rolling even after the spots in her eyes had dissipated.

Imoen rolled up to her feet with a nose full of smoke and ozone, dagger in hand. Full panic had exploded through the room now as people shrieked and scurried for cover, tables overturned and glasses shattering. The lightning bolt had bitten a huge chunk out of the steps that led to the upper level and left them blackened and smoking. It had done even worse to the wall of the hold beyond, blasting a wide hole clear through. The lights of the city could be glimpsed through it, moving with the roll of the deck.

Skie popped up beside her, a short sword brandished and trembling in her hand. Through the strewn tables and bits of smoldering wood Yago was advancing, clad in his rumpled dressing-robe, his thinning black hair loose and clinging to his round, pudgy face. The air shimmered all around him with what Imoen guessed were hastily thrown-up protective spells, and he looked downright crazed.

"Hey, listen a moment!" Imoen started anyway. "Can't we work this out? We're just trying to…"

But the mage wasn't interested in any words besides the sort that called down fire and destruction, and Imoen's voice trailed off when she recognized the gestures he was starting to make. She backed up when he added a chant that was once again all too familiar. Long before the flickering glow appeared between Yago's fingers Imoen knew a fireball was coming, just like the ones Davaeorn had been so fond of throwing around. _Lightning bolts and fireballs._ Was there anything mages loved more?

Sheathing her useless dagger and gripping Skie's shoulder again, Imoen turned towards the open blast-hole two paces behind her. The choppy waves shimmered in the moonlight a good ten feet below, but she didn't see any other choice. "Skie!"

"What?"

"Jump!" And with that Imoen took her own advice and leapt out into the darkness.

* * *

With a sudden shift Ram-Horns slid into a crouch. Ashura saw the kick coming and reflex had her leaping as the dresser slid across the hardwood floor and struck the wall with a crunch that tore it apart. Her feet touched down on the shattered pieces of wood just in time for her to twist away from a stab of the tiefling's sword. Gleaming steel streaked right by her chest and sunk deep into the nearby wall.

The tiefling easily yanked her blade free of the wood, but she was open for just enough of a space for Ashura to give her a slash across the arm, at the same time jumping from the dresser and diving between the curtains. She managed to stumble and keep her feet when she landed in the hall.

Whirling immediately, Ashura pressed her back against the nearby wall, her free hand shooting to her belt. There were frightened shouts everywhere now, and streams of smoke raced along the ceiling and upper walls. Curtains nearby parted, and a man and woman spilled out, half-dressed, half-crawling and half-running for the stepladder. The man caught an elbow to the face as they both struggled to be first up and out.

Then the curtains across from Ashura flew open.

Instead of Ram-Horns, a man with a tangled mop of brown hair stumbled out and nearly landed on her sword, bare-chested and holding his breaches up with one hand. His eyes darted about, mindless with terror and apparently not sure which direction to run.

A flick of Ashura's thumb and the cork popped off the potion vial. In the same instant she lifted it to her lips, ignoring the sharp and unfamiliar spices as she gulped the liquid down.

Before the man could decide which way to run his eyes bugged out even wider and his head was flung back, the milky white of his chest erupting with black and red. Something slick and sharp burst from his solar plexus, not stopped or slowed by flesh and bone. On reflex Ashura flung her sword up and smacked the blade, pushing it away from her as she danced aside.

For a brief moment the tip of the blooded sword bit into the cabin wall where Ashura had been as she hopscotched backwards and Ram-Horns gripped the impaled man's shoulder. Then the tiefling twisted her body suddenly and the glistening blade was flying towards Ashura once again, along with black and red pieces of flesh and bone; an explosion of fury and force and gore that ripped the man's chest open from the inside and forced Ashura back down the hall.

It was easy to dodge at least. A slow and clumsy slash. Even the flying droplets of blood and pieces of the torn man seemed to hang in the air, fat and sluggish. Ashura's back foot slid a bit and then she came to a stop, heels leaving the floor as she leaned in, tense and ready for a lunge.

Beneath her feet she felt the deck pitch slightly. Time slowed further, and it was an eternity before the shower of blood and hunks of warm flesh and bone finally struck her; a wave seen far out at sea at last breaking upon the shore.

With a gore-smeared grin the tiefling slowly (oh so slowly,) turned, gleefully showing off the mangled body she had just opened with her sword in a raw display of strength. The last trembles ran through the poor man, his chest a ruin and his left arm hanging on by a sliver of flesh. "It all comes apart, doesn't it?" Ram-Horns asked in a low voice. "All flesh and all hope. Do you see?" It took her forever to ask her meaningless, maniac-questions, each word that clumsily fell from her lips low and drawn out. _Too bloody slow_. The whole world was too slow.

Ashura still wished she had a strength potion on her to fully match this devil's fury, but the vial she had just downed would have to do.

One lightning-quick intake of breath, then she flung the empty bottle forward and launched herself at the tiefling all in one motion. Ram-horns dodged the glass and raised her sword defensively, but Ashura was already weaving past the blade by then; already planning ten moves ahead from there.

Too slow. _You're too bloody slow!_

Passing her foe's guard, Ashura slammed an armored wrist against the edge of the tiefling's blade, pushing it aside enough to duck under and spring forward. The stab went deep, driven on by momentum to pierce armor and belly and then armor again on the other side.

As the blade went through, the tiefling reached down to snatch at Ashura with those iron fingers; to grip and crush and fling like she had before, but her hand just clawed at empty air. Ashura had already yanked her sword out with near the same speed as the stab had gone in, turning and slipping under hand and blade to pass the tiefling by.

Springing up, Ashura lashed out with her sword again; a wide cut, too shallow to sever anything vital but deep enough that her wrist was jarred a bit when she struck bone. Ram-Horns stumbled forward and Ashura spun on her heel for another pass.

The tiefling managed to turn as well, stubbornly keeping to her feet and pressing her spare hand to her stomach now as copious amounts of blood flowed between her fingers. Despite the empty white of her eyes, they managed to express both pain and defiance as she held up her sword with that terrible, inexhaustible strength. Through sharp, gritted teeth Ram-Horns managed to speak. "I welcome the void, and so should you. In the end-"

The air all around the tiefling shook with a massive vibration, accompanied by an ear-splitting BOOM that cut her words off and forced Ashura to turn her head and shield her face. Curtains fluttered and blew inward all around, and the cabin walls shook and rattled. The blast forced Ashura to stumble back and overwhelmed her ears, but Ram-Horns seemed to take the worst of it. With a clang that barely registered, the tiefling's sword fell to the deck, and both her hands pressed to her ears as she bent forward in agony.

Lunging with all the speed and strength she could summon, Ashura pushed through the rolling waves of noise, the edge of her blade slicing down between the tiefling's horns to cleave into bone and brain. When Ram-Horns finally slid down, face first to the deck, Garrick and Xan were standing a few paces behind her, both haggard and a little singed. Blood marred the blue glow of Xan's moonblade, and Ashura could still see and smell wisps of smoke rolling through the cabin.

_ Wonder if I'm eventually going to go deaf from Garrick always trying to save me with that damn spell. Need to get him another one of those paralyzing wands.  _ "What took you so long?" Ashura asked as she caught her breath.

"There _was_ another tiefling," Garrick pointed out as he leaned against a partition. "With a flaming wand and some nasty spells."

"Coran had made her quite upset," Xan added, "just before we bumped into her."

"Where's Coran then?" Ashura asked.

"Foolishly chasing after a jilted husband, it seems," Xan observed, looking past her to the stepladder and the deck above.

* * *

Mounting the flight of steps and dashing onto the ruined tavern-deck, Coran arrived just in time to witness Imoen and Skie jump through a smoldering hole in the far wall, followed immediately by a roiling bolt of fire. The fireball disappeared out into the night, and then less than a heartbeat later there was a roar and flash though the gap, an incendiary explosion somewhere out on the river.

The mage who had flung the spell (Yago! He was sure of it,) whirled around and howled in frustration, his loose bed robe threatening to fly open. Two men had been creeping up behind him, short swords drawn and pointing forward. When Yago's unfocused gaze wavered over them they both stopped, glancing at each other warily.

"Halt!" one of the guards barked with as much authority as he could muster.

With a twist of his wrist and a few snarled-out words Yago unleashed a wave of undulating blackness. Where it touched the men the darkness seemed to come to life, bending into tendrils that clung to their chests. Both guards arched their backs involuntarily, heads thrown back as their skin grew sallow and their cheeks sunk in, then as one they slumped and tumbled backwards, arms lifelessly flopping and bodies deflated inside their oversized leathers. Yago seemed to stand up taller and straighter as he drew the tendril of darkness back to his fingers.

Coran didn't slow down, dodging past fallen chairs and tables as he neared where the men had died.

Yago had just turned towards him with unseeing, bloodshot eyes and raised a menacing hand when the elf flicked his wrist and sent one of his daggers flying, and there was a flash as the enchanted blade bit through some sort of barrier, followed by a pained shout.

The mage reeled back, sluggishly looking up at the blade through his palm. Then his eyes finally focused. "You," he snarled through clenched teeth, glaring directly at Coran. "Those tattoos!" He launched into yet another spell. " _Mythok ret-_ Awwwl!"

Coran had vaulted over a table and cleared the distance between them by then, snatching Yago's other wrist and driving his second dagger through the back of the mage's hand and into a nearby tabletop beneath. "No more flinging spells," the elf growled. "At babies, or anyone else."

After a few deep, gulping breathes Yago managed to compose himself and glare once again at Coran through glassy eyes. The edge of his lip curled up in a sneer. "Here to…here to steal the last pieces of my life, are you?" he slurred. "Wasn't enough to take Brielbara? To plant a halfbreed bastard in her belly for all to…to see."

Coran looked at the panting, disheveled man for a long moment. "I may be a thief," he admitted, "but I didn't steal a damn thing from you. _You_ destroyed your own damn life. And…and…" There was something foggy to his vision now, his voice choking a little. "Who would put a withering curse on a _baby_? How could you?! A _baby_! A mewling little thing guilty of nothing but being born into this world! Forced to suffer slowly…and die!"

Breathing hard, Yago just glared up, his head rocking from side to side.

"Was it all for your damn vanity?" Coran went on. "Because you sure don't look any prettier for it! You should have come after me! You shouldn't…you didn't have too…" He fumbled for words, struggling against the tears. "Just tell me why!" he finally managed to demand.

Nostrils flared and pain twisted the human's face, but there seemed to be something beneath. The fury had seeped out of him now, and in those red-rimmed eyes all Coran could see now was despair. Yago's lips quivered as he breathed in deeply. "I…I…" he began.

There was a blur in the corner of Coran's vision and something flashed between him and the man he had pinned before him; black hair and steel. All that came out of Yago's mouth was a " _Hrk_!" as his eyes bulged, then shifted down to the sword that had buried itself in his chest.

Ashura kicked the mage in the gut and sent him sliding off her blade and to the floor, the table his hand was pinned to tipping over and clattering down on top of him. She glanced at Coran. "You were going to let a hostile mage _speak_?" She shook her head and walked by, flicking her arm to throw some of the blood off her sword. "Fucking dumbass," she grumbled.

Coran stared down at the quivering body, blood pooling and life fading fast. He supposed this was vengeance. He supposed he should hate the dying man. The fat, despairing, petty little man.

Instead he just sighed.

* * *

All told, things didn't go as badly as they _could_ have. The fire on the pleasure ship _could_ have spread and sunk the whole thing to the bottom of the bay. More people _could_ have died beyond Desreta's victim, the two guards, two people who had drowned in the rush to flee the ship, and Yago and the tieflings themselves. The furious owner of the Lantern and the rest of his guards _could_ have not been persuaded that all the destruction had been completely Yago's fault (thankfully Xan and Garrick were _very_ persuasive.) Perhaps worst of all, as Imoen briefly feared when she climbed out of the bay after a frantic swim, the curses detailed in Yago's spellbook could have been smeared away by river water and lost forever, dooming Namara and rendering the whole misadventure pointless.

It's fairly common for mages to enchant their spellbooks against the damp and other conditions that can ruin paper, and thankfully Yago had done just that. So in the end they managed to deliver the book to a very grateful mother at the Splurging Sturgeon Inn.

Hours later, in the grey light of a rainy autumn morning, Brielbara sat beneath a leaden window and rocked a frail little bundle in her arms. Once again the baby was sleeping, though the quaking and the unnatural pallor was gone now. A healing song from Garrick had sped Namara's recover some, and the infant had found the strength to stir awake and feed a bit from her mother's breast before slipping back into a restful sleep.

Brielbara looked beyond exhausted, perhaps too drained to even sleep. From a nearby chair Coran silently watched her cradle their child. He was the only one of the party left now; the others having returned to the Elfsong or gone off to the not-so-secret thieves' house.

Eventually, Coran took a breath and broke the silence. "I'm sorry, for what it's worth. I remember…all those things I said back then." A mocking imitation of himself: "'What a pathetic little fool Yago must me, to neglect your beauty. If you were mine I would never leave your side. I would live only for the next golden smile, and the next and the next.' The empty, silly words of an empty, silly man." He chuckled. "But I never thought any harm would come of it. Certainly never meant…"

Brielbara sighed. "Yago _was_ a pathetic little man, in the end. He proved it. And…I never believed a word of yours. Surely you realize that. I was just lonely. Yago and I had been fighting a lot." She shook her head. "And I'm sorry that I called you a coward. I _was_ the one who told you to run." She looked up into his eyes. "Mr. 'I'll never leave your side.'"

"You realize I would have-"

"Of course I realize." She was grinning

"But none of this would have ever happened if…"

A tired snicker. "You hardly sound like the Coran I knew. Are you truly one to lament the past?"

A wan smile. "I never would have thought so, but apparently I am." He reached into his padded overshirt and withdrew a tightly bound pouch. When he dropped it to the tabletop in front of them there was a clink. "There's gold and platinum there," Coran said absently. "Part of a reward from the mayor of Beregost for the heads of two wyverns, along with coins taken from a pirate hoard. There's also a ruby and a black opal from the Black Talon Fortress in the Cloakwood. And pearls taken from a deadly clan of sirines. Quite a story there."

"Trying to buy a clean conscience?" Brielbara asked with a weary look at the bag between them. Coran pressed his lips together at that, but she quickly added: "I'll admit, I'm not too proud to take it. We don't have much left, after what Yago did." Turning, she made an attempt at a smile. "So, thank you."

Silence fell upon them again and the pouch sat there on the table. Eventually Coran stood, leaning forward to offer both his hands. "You look like you haven't slept in days," he pointed out. "Here. Let me rock her for a little while."

Brielbara gave him an uncertain look, then with a slight shrug she carefully lifted the swaddled child, guiding her towards Coran's arms. "Careful please. She's not-"

"It's okay," he said with a reassuring smile. His hands were quick but gentle, cradling his daughter and settling her against his chest without the slightest stir. "Not the first time I've held an infant. Would you believe I was actually the eldest of four children, before the wanderlust struck me? Rather a large family for _or-tel-quessir_. And, of course, the constant demands of a large clan may have contributed to my desire to get away and see the wider world."

Nodding absently, Brielbara stood and walked over to the bed, just slipping off her shoes before she slid down to the sheets and curled up. The bag of coins and gems remained untouched on the tabletop, and Coran gave it a brief glance before his eyes returned to the frail little bundle nestled in his arms.

There'd be time to figure out what to do with the pouch later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One possible answer to Ravel's riddle is 'Fatherhood.' It's far from guaranteed, but you do sometimes hear guys say that after realizing that they have to look out for the welfare of this other, tiny, frail person their outlook on life changed drastically.
> 
> I like to hope that I laid the groundwork properly for Coran's sudden burst of cannon-game-defying character-development, what with the caravan story and how he reacted when he thought that his friends had died. 'Maybe life isn't just adventure or nothing after all.'


	50. Dirty Jobs

_ "No matter what you keep telling yourself, scruples and privateer work are eventually going to clash."  _ –Captain Zahera, _A Kraken's Tale_

* * *

"Now this is some _real_ food!" Skie exclaimed as her fingers delicately pinched fork and knife, sawing off another tiny portion of glazed pheasant.

"It's pretty good, yeah," Ashura agreed as she chewed on a hunk of the stuff. It was quite a feast for a midday meal, and at an opulent establishment to boot. The Helm and Cloak was about as posh as an inn could get, every surface immaculate and polished to the point that you could see your reflection in the them. The furnishings were sturdy and elegant, and the tapestries that hung from the cherrywood walls depicted pastoral scenes in mellow colors, creating a homely atmosphere. Twin candelabras lit the spacious dining hall, simple but beautiful works of crystal and brass.

It was a bit of a contrast to the adjoining section of the inn through which Ashura and Garrick had first entered, where the ceilings were covered with elaborate, erotic frescos that had them thinking that they had accidently stepped into a brothel. Supposedly the previous owner of the house that eventually became that part of the inn had been a priestess of Sune, and the frescos had never been painted over because they were considered 'masterpieces.' Go figure.

Skie seemed to cringe at Ashura's lack of table manners, turning away slightly and hiding beneath her hood. "Slumming is fun and all," she said once she had carefully chewed her food and wiped her lips with a cloth, "but the meals leaves much to be desired. It seems like its fish, fish, fish in every inn, and that gruel they serve at the Elfsong…blech!"

Ashura rolled her eyes. She rather liked Alyth's stew. The fare here at the Helm and Cloak was better of course, and quite a bit more expensive. Ten gold coins for glazed and marinated pheasant served atop a pile of fried potatoes and onions, with some candied nectarines decorating the corners of each plate.

"Well, we are in a fishing town," Garrick pointed out cheerfully.

"Yeah I know." Skie wrinkled her nose. "Makes it quite a smelly city, if you ask me. Once we have our gold I'm going to insist that Eldoth and I move somewhere inland."

"Fine by me," Ashura muttered.

Looking up from her fork and knife, Skie gave the other woman a hurt look, and then let out a sigh. "I must seem like such a spoiled brat."

"Not at-" Garrick began.

"Of course you do," Ashura said more firmly, cutting him off.

Skie crinkled her lips, then nodded. "It's alright Garrick." Looking into Ashura's eyes she added: "I don't mean to be. Don't want to be. I've lived in this city my whole life, but only seen it through carriage windows up until these past few days. I'm ever so grateful for the little 'ventures' Imoen and you have taken me on, and everything else you've done for me. I'm just not like you. You're so strong and confident and…"

Ashura waved a dismissive hand. "Bah. We're actually not that different," she offered. "Me and Ims were cloistered all our lives, up until a couple seasons ago. One moment I'd never seen a wolf except in picture books, the next thing one of them was trying to eat me. And then there's gibberlings, xvarts, hobgoblins, ogres…it was quite a rude awakening. You'll adjust. Give it time."

"Thanks." Skie gave her a weak smile. "Although, I do kind of hope I never see an ogre."

"That's a good way to go about it." Ashura gave her a little grin. "If you think the Baldur's Gate bay is smelly, just wait until you meet a ferial ogre in the wild."

"Oh my!" Skie covered her mouth, giggling a little.

"There's wonders to be seen out there too," Garrick pointed out. "And I hope you get to see it all, Lady Skie. The soaring Cloudpeak Moutains. The great gorges of the Cloakwood, with wyverns gracefully sailing overhead. Elves and dwarves and forest nymphs."

Ashura turned to him. "We've never actually met a forest nymph."

"Not yet," he teased.

"Hopefully not ever." She couldn't help but smirk.

Past the polished chairs and tables of the common room Eldoth was approaching, a generous crystal goblet in each hand. He placed one in front of Skie and took a testing sip of the other before straddling a chair next to her.

"Well hello there Eldie!" Skie squeaked, beaming up at him. "What did you bring me?"

"Saerloonian Topaz, my dear. It's your favorite, no?"

"It is," Skie agreed happily, before taking a dainty sip. "Can we try Saerloonian Glowfire next though? I've never had wine that _glows_ before!"

"It actually glows?" Ashura asked.

"It's an elven thing," Garrick explained. "Naturally."

"Wonder if it makes your pee glow in the dark," Ashura pondered.

Skie managed to gasp, laugh and cover her mouth all at once.

"Indeed," Eldoth joined in with a playful tone. "The copper elves say it's not a true party until you're 'pissing rainbows.'"

Skie chortled at that. "No they don't! Well. Actually, Coran would say that sort of thing wouldn't he?"

They were silent for a moment, munching their meals and sipping their elven wine. Eventually Eldoth spoke again. "You've really moved up in the world," he observed, taking in the lavish dining hall with a casual tilt of his head. Skie giggled beside him, leaning against his arm. A casual tug and she plopped into his lap.

"Yeah," Skie agreed. "Why, this hardly counts as slumming at all!"

"We can always go somewhere sleazier," Eldoth suggested.

"I'm sure you'd fit in," Ashura muttered, fixing him with a pointed look.

The northerner's smile didn't falter. "Why the hostility?" he asked. "Have we not shed blood together? And I daresay, some of the gems from a certain lovely young lady's dressing table helped you pay for this lavish meal, no?" That brought out another giggle from Skie.

"We're grateful of course," Garrick said with a greasy grin. An instant later he became self-conscious of it and whipped his mouth, bashfully looking away from the princess sitting across the table from him.

"Guess you pulled your weight," Ashura agreed halfheartedly as she munched. In the end the big smug rake _had_ fought well when pressed. He'd even entertained them some with lute and song on the Cloakwood trail, though it irked her how he never missed an opportunity to belittle Garrick. She also couldn't recall a time when he had so much as picked up a piece of kindling or helped with a tent peg or a meal whenever they were setting up or breaking camp.

"And," Eldoth added, "We've come to you with another fine opportunity to line your pockets. You strike me as the sort of woman always looking for those. Cool and pragmatic."

Ashura lifted another forkful of pheasant and watched the bard with narrow eyes. "Something about a ransom, is it?" she asked.

"Exactly." There was a wicked and playful cast to Eldoth's smile as he placed two straightened fingers against the front of Skie's long neck. His voice grew melodramatic. "Poor lady Silvershield is in mortal peril!" Skie played along, thrusting her head back and doing an exaggerated damsel-in-distress impression. "Cutthroats hold her captive, imperiling her safety and, perhaps, her virtue!"

"Oh my!" Skie gasped.

"Only a hefty payment in golden tradebars will sate them! I've communicated this to Entar's men, and we've agreed on a place to make the exchange. Tonight, ideally."

"But when we do our little handoff," Skie added cheerfully, "it'll be dangerous, and we'll need protection. We also need to really convince them, and that means competent, menacing cutthroats!"

"And in the brief time I've known you," Eldoth told Ashura, "I've seen you cut quite a few throats. Though no-nonsense stab-wounds seem to be your preference. Shar-Teel has that talent as well, and she has already agreed to help, once she was done throwing insults at me. Seems we're putting together quite the amazon brigade."

"Very flattering. So what's the actual plan and how would I be involved?"

"We simply need you to be there when one of Entar's agents sees that Skie is being held 'hostage.' We'll make sure there is no trap first, snatch the ransom money and then make a hasty escape. I have quite a bit of magic at my disposal that can stun the man who delivers the gold."

"Sounds damn risky. Isn't sending them a toe the traditional way to go about these things?" Skie's playful smile turned into a grimace at that.

"I prefer the lady's dainty feet intact," Eldoth said, a hand slipping down to squeeze Skie's knee. "Not to mention that such things would make her easier to magically track." With his other hand he rubbed the hooded cape that hung from the girl's shoulders. "This handy enchanted cloak helps proof her against scrying, but we don't want to take any chances, do we?"

"Sounds like a big chance. Meeting somewhere with the 'hostage' and those who want her back all together. Unless we just want to sell her back outright." That brought out another hurt, pouty look from Skie.

"Let me worry about the details," Eldoth said, "but you are somewhat correct. No matter what we do, this will be a precarious situation. Which is why we need all the muscle we can get. Risk must be taken, if reward is to follow. After the Cloakwood I figured you would delight in such things. And the reward will be substantial: a gold trade bar for your service. Those things are worth a hefty sum."

Ashura glanced down at her plate. "That'll buy a lot of pheasant, I guess." She looked over at Garrick.

Following her eyes, Eldoth held up a hand. "Unfortunately we're not extending this offer to the bard. I hope you understand, but you see…I don't think anyone could ever picture Garrick as menacing."

Garrick frowned, but then let out a laugh. "Damn. I'm always getting type-casted."

"We all must play our parts." Eldoth looked over at Ashura. "So, are you in?"

"Oh please! Oh please!" Skie put in with her hands clasped together, begging.

Ashura shrugged. "I guess."

"Yay!"

Once the wine goblets were empty Eldoth rose, taking Skie with him after telling Ashura to meet them outside the Elfsong tavern after sunset. Shortly after they had gone Garrick stood up as well. "Since I just can't be menacing," He quipped, "I guess I'll go see if Xan still needs help with that investigation he was talking about."

Ashura got to her feet. "Sorry about that. Eldoth's a giant ass."

"Eh. He's right. I never could master 'scary.' Really best if I stick to comedy. And maybe the lighter dramas." He leaned in and planted a kiss on Ashura's lips. Once he had tilted back she shot him a grin.

"Have fun being a do-gooder," Ashura teased.

"Have fun being a cutthroat." They shared another kiss, then parted.

* * *

As soon as he had slipped down off the final, rusty rung and set his feet upon the stone floor Xan rubbed his hands together and hid them beneath the sleeves of his robe, lest he touch one of the slick walls close by. "We always go to the most pleasant places," he groused, wrinkling his nose.

Imoen kept her laugh as low as possible, so it wouldn't echo down the narrow halls of the sewer. "Hey, it _is_ partly yer fault!" she chided him. "You suggested we ask Scar if he needed help with his investigation." She took on a deeper, nasally voice and did her best Xan impersonation: "'Rather than another horridly violent misadventure involving kidnapping heiresses or stealing Skyship plans, perhaps we should try to make ourselves useful?'"

Xan surveyed the tunnels as Imoen conjured up a faint wisp of illusory light, mostly for Garrick's sake, as Imoen had her infravision ring, and Xan, Viconia and Coran could see in the dark. "I think this still may count as a misadventure," he complained. "The idea was to help with the iron shortage investigation, not to do the work that the city guard is too incompetent or busy to do. If I had known it would lead to a sewer…"

"Aww, but aren't you a world-class investigator? And you were the one who figured out that Lady Hannah and the others all disappeared near this sewer grate. Gotta go wherever your brilliant deductions lead!"

Xan just shook his head a bit, and Imoen patted him on the arm before starting down the walkway, stepping gingerly beside a channel of shallow, murky water.

"You know," Garrick said in a cheery voice, "it's just like an adventure story. You can't have a good one without at least one crawl through a sewer."

"Exactly my thoughts," Imoen agreed. "And it doesn't even smell _as_ bad as I thought it would." It was hard to judge, but the air did seem more on the cloying, scummy and musty side than the overwhelming stench of a privy one might expect. Perhaps the recent rains had kept the channels flowing and flushed most of the nasty stuff out to the river. "So less grumbling and more investigating!"

"Perhaps our resident hunter should take the lead?" Xan suggested, casting his eyes towards Coran.

The wood elf looked the part, with his longbow slung over his shoulder, along with his elven cloak that had taken on the grey of his surroundings. He shot Xan an amused grin. "I'll try, but I'm not entirely sure what we're tracking, or how to single out the 'spore' when there's…well…spore everywhere."

"Just keep those sharp eyes you _or-tel-quassir_ always brag of out and searching," Xan suggested. "And I suppose taking one path at random is as good as any other." Following Imoen, they all began to trudge down the passage, soon coming to a branch but continuing forward.

The sewers seemed to be a labyrinth of ever-branching tunnels, and the stone support pillars, grey slimy walls and pipes all looked more or less the same as they progressed. Some of the pipes were dry and rust-stained, while others belched out streams of grey water that flowed into the wider channels. Narrow shafts of sunlight broke the sameness up here and there, filtering down through rusted grates and gaps in the ceiling.

Occasionally scrap-wood planks or duckboard would span the wider flows of scummy water, rotten and crumbling for the most part. Xan cringed when Imoen danced her way across one of the haphazard bridges, but it seemed to hold, and the others carefully followed.

After perhaps ten minutes of aimless wandering through the stagnant air and gloom, Coran came to a sudden stop and placed a cautioning hand on Imoen's shoulder. The rest halted as well, glancing around. Xan cocked his head and placed a hand upon his sword, but all his keen ears could pick up was the soft gurgle of water as it trickled through the channels. Then he noticed that Coran's nostrils were flaring. _How could anyone catch a unique scent in this literal cesspit?_

The wood elf placed an arrow to his bowstring, turning and sniffing and searching the air, but as far as Xan could tell the passage in which they stood was remained silent and still. Up ahead there seemed to be some sort of intersection and a wider pool, but nothing moved there beyond floating motes in the sunbeams. Following Coran's lead, the rest of the group closed in a bit and fingered their weapons.

"Smell's close," Coran finally whispered as softly as he could.

"How can you tell?" Garrick asked.

"Ya," Imoen agreed. "'Course, I've been breathing through my mouth."

"Ah," Viconia hissed. "I smell it as well. Stronger than the offal. The stench of rotting meat and death."

"If it is undead," Xan whispered, "perhaps you can-"

He gasped and flinched back when he saw movement at the corner of his vision, his moonblade sliding from its sheath. Something slick and white and gleaming had slithered out of a rusty pipe nearby, countless tiny legs undulating as the thing dropped to the stone mere paces away.

Then without a pause it surged forward.

The moonblade was raised and braced in Xan's hand before the crawling thing got closer, but he was taken by surprise when it turned its head to one side and countless whipcord-tendrils unfurled beneath its wet, black eyes. Another swift turn of the creature's head and the streaming tendrils lashed out, striking Xan in the side and curling around his arm.

Acute little stings followed, all up and down his arm and body, and were swiftly followed by a seeping numbness. Xan stumbled a few steps back as his limbs grew thick and heavy.

The crawling creature lunged forward far faster than Xan could stumble, breath hissing out through a beak-like-thing between the shaggy tendrils and filling Xan's lungs with the stench of death. He fought the slowness in his limbs –fought it with all his strength- but he could only stumble back one more agonizing step.

Then a flash of steel struck one of the black orbs the creature used for eyes, sinking deep and making it weep a gush of something green. A look of concentration and effort on his face, Garrick pressed in closer and pushed the wriggling, centipede-like thing back.

With an ear-splitting hiss, the creature reeled and came off of Garrick's rapier, rearing up above them both, limbs beyond counting undulating and furious. There was a plinking sound somewhere close by, and an object flashed past Xan and buried itself deep in the creature's head, just above the clicking black beak. The centipede teetered back even further, body whipping around and around like a rope being readied to throw, then the creature just collapsed to the floor, limbs and segments twisting in opposite directions.

Nearby there was motion and the sound of scurrying, and with a great effort Xan began to turn his body, seeing Imoen dance back from the lashing tendrils of an identical creature while Viconia pointed with a gloved finger and called upon the power of her goddess. He wanted desperately to add a spell of his own, or to slash with his glowing sword, but each degree he rotated felt more difficult than the one before. He was swimming through molasses. He was buried in mud. He was…was he even moving at all?

Down the tunnel a deep and resonant voice boomed. At first it just seemed to be laughing, but then Xan recognized the words that followed. _Sweet Seldarine_ did he recognize those words, twisted as they were by the monster's lips. Xan had spoken them many times.

_ "Mirith thel arc letok…" _

Ahead in the darkness a figure towered, at least eight feet tall and dressed in corroded scraps of steel, round plates at the shoulders. Sharply pointed ears grew from a bald head, the skin an inhuman blue-grey, and above those ears stood a long, sharp horn.

_ An oni!  _ As the creature swept the air with an open hand energy built at its fingertips. The oni's sharp yellow teeth gleamed as it chanted, voice dripping with mirth.

Xan raised a sluggish hand and mirrored the gesture, but as he opened his mouth he simply couldn't find the strength to push the air past his lips. _Blast!_ It would be such an easy thing to counter the spell; to mimic the words and motions and knock the swirling enchantment from the air.

If he could only move. If he could only speak.

_ Blast! Blast! Blast! Someone release me!  _ He knew the drow witch could do just that. If she only knew how close they were to ruin! If she knew how he could save them from it. If she even cared…

_ "…lelath creen neviaus!" _

Too late now. The oni tossed the pulsating globe of orange that had been forming between its fingers, the spell bubbling with chaos as it streaked close and then exploded. Waves of emotion and contradictory sensation filled the tunnel and Xan's head all at once.

He closed his eyes, tightened his lips, and emptied his mind the way he had been taught long ago at the Arcane College. At the corners of his being he felt the warring sensations of the spell tugging, but he focused only on what was ahead, still and unmoving as a mountain. Another terrible moment of pulling, like the magic was a pack of wolves biting and worrying at his mind. Then the enchanted wave rolled by.

He had shrugged off the spell. For all the good it did.

Alas, he still could not move. Could not raise a dispel, or ready his weapon, or do a damn thing as he watched the bright, beautiful girl with the red hair go skipping forward down the corridor towards her doom. She looked like she was hopping across a lane, on the way to play with friends on a bright, sunny day. Of course she was actually rushing along a sewer tunnel towards a towering oni and his centipede pets. _Labelas deliver me!_

Xan watched it all, fighting the paralysis with every fiber of his being as Imoen skipped closer to the monster, giggling. Then his heart leapt with something a bit like relief as she abruptly turned and splashed through a shallow channel, dashing down towards one of the branching tunnels, carried along with supernatural speed by her magical boots.

His heart sank once again when she suddenly halted. _What are you doing? Run!_ Instead, Imoen bent forward and stuck her backside high in the air, pointing it in the general direction of the oni. A quick wiggle from side to side followed. "Ha ha!" Her laugh echoed through the tunnels. "You can't catch me!"

The oni seemed to take that as a challenge, stomping forward through the filth.

But just as fast as she had bent down, Imoen was up again and zipping down the tunnel with superhuman speed, disappearing around a bend as the oni thundered along behind her. One of the pet centipedes followed, and the other broke off and began to crawl down the tunnel towards Xan, tendrils waving in the air and following a scent. His scent. It took its time, perhaps aware that its prey was paralyzed, inching along the sewer floor on those skittering little legs.

_ So this is it.  _ Once before Xan had been in a similar predicament, sure that he would die; paralyzed and captured by some horrifyingly oversized vermin. Imoen had rescued him, as he recalled. Perhaps some spiteful god was getting their revenge now. Or this had just been ordained as his fate all along.

The crawler wriggled forward, some sort of liquid dripping from its beak and its black eyes gleaming. Perhaps this was for the best. For a moment Xan had been terrified that he was about to see Imoen cut down by the oni. Perhaps she would get away after all, thanks to the magic boots if nothing else. At the very least he would never know. Better to die than to see what might happen to her. He could go to Arvandor with the hope that-

A hand settled on Xan's shoulder and he stumbled a bit, suddenly able to move. "I hope you are grateful, _darthiir_ ," a familiar voice with a very foreign accent whispered close to his ear.

He ignored that, wasting no time and whipping his hand forward to shout out a desperate spell. A ray of slithering darkness leapt from his fingertips and struck the crawler directly between the eyes, making it wriggle like a worm on a hook. Xan cringed as its foul-tasting life-force rushed though the gap between them, filling him with sickening strength.

Once the blast of the emergency-necromancy spell had faded, the creature was little more than a desiccated, dried out husk coiled upon the sewer floor. Xan allowed himself a breath and glanced around as briefly as he could. Viconia was there beside him, unaffected by the _confusion_ spell, but Coran was standing by one of the walls, staring at it intently. Garrick was on the other side of the tunnel, spinning around and around with his arms folded in front of him, as if he were waltzing with an unseen partner.

Without a word Xan began to march forward, heedlessly splashing through the muck as he crossed the sewer channel and began to jog towards the tunnel where he had seen Imoen disappear. He sensed Viconia nearby, a silent shadow on his heels. "I'll be _very_ grateful when we save her," he shouted over his shoulder, breaking into a run as the blue glow of his moonblade led the way.

* * *

Giggling with glee, Imoen bounced around the bend in the maze. It was green and speckled with flowers; a garden with hedges and branches grown up so tight it formed a sort of labyrinth. Vines streamed from high branches, breaks in the hedges formed winding tunnels, and somewhere in the distance she could hear the distinctive trickle of Candlekeep's fountain. A familiar playground, though this seemed to be an unfamiliar corner of the place.

No matter. That made it all the more fun!

Something was thundering through the brush behind her, and her heart leapt with excitement.

_ Ya can't catch me!  _ She was light as a squirrel, dancing 'round the bushes and scramble-crawling through the low tunnels. The ground was a bit sodden, and her hands, knees and shoes quickly became soaked as she wriggled beneath a bush and dashed down the next path. _Musta' rained last night._

There was a big, silly roar of frustration behind her now. _Ha!_ It was a monster chasing her. She knew this game well! Playing Monsters and Mazes with Shura and Shistal. Shura especially liked ta play the monster. Sounded like someone else roaring this time though; an unfamiliar voice.

Imoen turned a corner and now the garden had grown up ten times taller. It was a jungle! Wild and gnarly and overgrown with green, vines choking out the great trees and waving in the breeze, all covered with blood-red flowers. She slowed, staring up at the forest in awe. There were strange things hanging from low branches nearby.

Were those…dead bodies? _Cool!_

She craned her neck for a look at the desiccated face of an upside-down woman, tied up with some sort of silky strings that reminded Imoen of the stuff caterpillars make. The dead lady's stringy hair was hanging all the way to the ground and her jaw was slack.

_ Haha! _ There was a bug crawling in the lady's nose! That reminded Imoen of a song, though she couldn't quite recall the words. ' _Something-something-something nose, something-something decompose.'_ It went about like that.

And there were more bodies of course, strung out like decorations among the trees. That one was a worn down to a dirty skeleton, almost. And _that_ one had its insides all hanging out, all gross and squishy.

This was just like…like…yeah! It was just like that story! She remembered it now.

A story about one of the layers of the Abyss! A terrifying, primordial jungle with corpses hanging like fruit on the vines, collected by the crawly demons that infest the undergrowth. There were great stone temples built by long forgotten races and choked with vines and rot and undead, along with lumbering behemoths stalking through the forest that could swallow you whole. Worst of all there were carnivorous plants and giant bugs of every sort you can imagine!

And towering above it all was Demogorgon, the bestial demon prince.

Somewhere down the jungle path branches snapped and tree trunks groaned. _And there he is!_ The great demon himself came shrugging through the trees and vines, stomping right out of the pages of a horror story.

A giddy thrill ran through Imoen as she turned and scurried in the opposite direction. Now this would make a fine, heroic tale! She turned on her heel after ducking past a tree that hung heavy with corpses, drawing her trusty, legendary, demon-slaying sword.

He was trying to hunt her, but she'd show him! Show him that she had some bite.

Of course, he was awful tall. Tall as the tallest of trees. If she wanted to fight back she'd have to reach up there. But how?

_ Oh yeah! _ How silly that she'd forgot! A quick gesture and a trembling whisper, and then she felt the magic flair through her, the pads of her hands and the soles of her feet tinging. _The climbing spell! Perfect!_ Imoen sheathed her sword for the moment and dashed towards the nearby tree, tapping its surface with her hands and feet and scurrying up, light as a lizard.

The demon prince was gaining now, standing tall and shouting a bunch of growly nonsense. He reared back once he got close, one of his great tentacle-arms whipping forward and cutting through the air. It struck the tree trunk with an oddly metallic screech, just as Imoen leapt away and dove, grabbing at the nearest thing she could reach.

What she grabbed happened to be one of the corpses stuck up against the tree with bug-silk, and when she snatched at the back of its legs and clung on she nearly dislodged the both of them. She swiveled and her feet hit the tree, then she leapt forward and launched herself like a frog at the giant demon, sending the bag of bones clattering to the ground.

The thing towering before her had big long tentacle arms for sure, but in that instant as she flew towards it she realized that it didn't quite look like Demogorgon should. Instead of two howling, hairy baboon-heads there was just one, and it didn't look monkey-like at all.

Just one face, impossibly big and swiftly filling more and more of her vision; a great grimacing carnival-mask with two beady little eyes and a big old horn atop its head. Imoen reached out as she sailed through the air and caught ahold of the horn just like the flagpole outside Phlydia's room, swinging 'round and planting her feet on the back of the creature's shoulders.

_ Doesn't much matter what sort of demon you are _ , she decided as she drew her trusty sword once again. _I'm a DEMON SLAYER!_ The beast twisted and bucked like crazy but she held on just like a nimble little monkey and brought her sword down.

The sudden lurch the demon made when the blade sank into its eye was too much to fight, and it sent Imoen flying forward off its shoulders. This was another familiar sensation: flying like she did off the rope swing her dad had put up behind the inn. Just like back then, she managed to sail through the air and land on her feet, albeit with a painful jolt and momentum forcing her to run forward.

Once she'd run a few paces Imoen twirled around and clapped her hands. "Ha! I won!" Normally this was the part of the game where Shura or Shistal would start arguing that the sword _totally_ hadn't hit a vital spot and they needed to keep playing.

Instead, the great green jungle began to blur and darken, and she realized that a towering oni in rusted armor was standing before her. Half of its face was covered by one clawed hand, and blood was gushing out from underneath, a sword falling from its other hand and into the muck. Then the oni's knees buckled and it fell forward, splashing sewer water everywhere.

"Uh…what?" was all Imoen could manage as she stared in wide-eyed confusion. A scuffling noise behind her had her turning, and she blinked as the green kept fading, turning grey and brown. At first it seemed like writhing jungle vines were slithering towards her, then they whipped about and resolved into two fat, white-yellow centipedes with faces that bristled with moving tendrils.

Before the crawling things got close an arcane wave flashed by and the creatures lurched to a stop, shimmering briefly as if they were incased in glass. Two slender figures rushed out of the shadows, one in splotchy purple and the other dressed in black, her white hair billowing. Xan's moonblade glowed a bright blue as he hacked into one of the paralyzed creatures, and red light crackled across Viconia's open hand nearby. The drow slammed her palm against the other giant bug, and there was a sickening sizzle as the energy broke through grubby flesh.

Stepping back and shaking ichor off her hand in disgust, Viconia gave Imoen a glance. "It appears she did not need rescuing after all," the drow noted dryly.

Xan only nodded, clutching his knees and panting hard.

Still a bit lost, Imoen did her best to blink back the blurriness in front of her eyes and look around. A sewer tunnel and an open chamber nearby. This was not the Candlekeep gardens or an imaginary jungle at all. In place of hedges there were stone walls now, and pillars instead of tree trunks.

The corpses were still there though, stuck to the walls by the same sticky silk she had seen before. A moment ago they had just seemed like macabre decorations at a Higharvestide festival, but no; these were the remains of real people, mangled by predators and scavengers and rot. Some were shriveled, others bloated, and a few looked like they had burst from the inside. In addition there was a neat collection of cleaned human bones sitting in a heap at the edge of one of the sewer channels, and nearby sat a pile of assorted clothes, coins, jewelry, cans, bags, keepsakes, and even silken handkerchiefs. The oni's work, Imoen realized; the bones of those he had eaten and the valuables he had collected.

And the bodies had been hung up by the crawling bug-things. And she had just put her dagger through the oni's eye, after climbing the wall and leaping off one of the corpses like it was the grandest childhood game, believing that her dagger was a legendary magic sword…

Dropping to her knees above dark, foamy water, Imoen let out a hacking cough and then began to retch.

* * *

The scrape and ring of steel on steel echoed through the alley behind the Elfsong tavern as the shadows deepened and the hour of lamp-lighting neared. There was still plenty of light to see the grimace that doubled as a grin on Shar-Teel's face though, as Ashura circled wide and ducked beneath a probing slash.

"Don't know why you insist on those pansy little swords," Shar-Teel growled as she tested again. Her longsword certainly had the reach, but Ashura kept bobbing and dancing away, both women trying to force the other to turn through constant feints and footwork.

"You're skinny as a string-bean, sure," Shar-Teel went on, huffing a bit, "but you could still heft a longsword easy enough. I say it's time to drop those little-girl toys and get something with REACH!" A twist and a slash had Ashura back-footing a bit, but she maneuvered to the space between a support-pole and the alley's wall. It forced Shar-Teel to stab, and Ashura easily twisted around the pole, her sword nearly biting into Shar-Teel's exposed arm and forcing the taller woman to back away.

From there Ashura pressed. For a moment they were grapple-close, steel clanging and then locking. Another twist and they both hopped back and took a breath. "A gladius reaches fine enough for me," Ashura countered. "It has the advantage in close quarters, and it's designed to deliver the perfect stab. A stab's more conclusive than a slash nine times out of ten, especially against armor."

Shar-Teel shook her head and made her lips flutter. "Pfft! That's a quote from some combat manual isn't it?"

"Yep." Ashura faked twice and then she was dashing in and they were a blur of clinking armor and scratching steel once more. Shar-Teel almost got a slash in when Ashura got turned at a bad angle, but a parry caught it in time. A kick to the back of the knee sent Ashura stumbling forward some more. She managed to turn, but it was all she could do to fight off a string of ferocious blows.

"I'm sure you'll win all sorts of fights against paper then!" Shar-Teel snarled, breath heavy and still pressing with slash after hammering slash. "Never...never met such a naive little twat! And that's counting the prissy princess!"

Ashura just smirked and kept dancing and countering. The slashes seemed to be coming slower now. "You should know by now that you can't taunt me, Ess-Tee."

"Bah! I don't need words to open someone's guts!"

"I saw. In that duel with the Reachman pirate with the whispery-voice. He just –oof!" Ashura barely caught the dueling dagger and shoved it back in time. Then she went on. "He just shrugged it all off and kept moving all slithery, till you got him in that arm lock and broke his elbow. Nice move."

"He was one of the better ones, far as men go," Shar-Teel huffed.

"Ha!" Ashura let out the sort of bark-laugh she often heard from Shar-Teel. _Ugh. Must be contagious._ "Ims has this theory…" She ducked under a wide but clumsy swipe and then sent Shar-Teel hopping back. "…that these duels of yours are some just some sort of mating ritual."

"Bah!" A fierce lunge and zig-zagging swipe that Ashura caught and redirected. "Not getting stupid-angry when I poke at their precious little egos is a welcome surprise. But I sure didn't want to bed Whisper-Voice. Just wanted his gold."

"Uh huh," Ashura danced aside, grinning.

"Hrmph!" Shar-Teel snarled. "You're taunting _me_ , aren't you?"

"Wearing you down. Should we just stop now? Unless you've got some secret reservoir hidden away?"

Shar-Teel's nostrils flared and her eyes went wide. The next series of slashes were quick and furious, but just as clumsy. Ashura slipped by and in a blink she was behind the bigger women, one of her 'pansy' short swords pointed at Shar-Teel's throat. Before Shar-Teel could say anything Ashura stepped back and sheathed her swords, both of them panting hard.

"Just glad I didn't get close enough for you to grab," Ashura said. "A broken arm would be annoying."

"Maybe next time."

"Maybe." The first time they had sparred Ashura had actually gotten knocked on her ass rather quickly. Shar-Teel could be pretty overwhelming; fast and nimble and terrifyingly strong, not to mention that she was an expert duelist. It was in the middle of their third match that Ashura had managed to prolong things long enough to realize that the bigger woman put everything into the first few blows, then got winded pretty quick. A sound strategy, perhaps, but she sure lacked stamina.

Now it was an easy matter to wear the warrior-woman down with some parrying and dancing, before finding the right moment to slip past her guard and finish the match. Ashura had even intentionally lost a few times. She really needed to get Shar-Teel to work on her endurance. Maybe they could do jumping stars together or something.

For now Ashura offered her sparring-partner a fresh cloth to wipe the sweat from her face as they both drifted towards the end of the alley. "Hope once this business is done it'll be the last we see of that grinning idiot and his pet," Shar-Teel muttered as she leaned against a wall.

Ashura shrugged. "Just hope it involves all the gold we've been promised and no complications," she said.

"Gold. Ha!" Shar-Teel rolled her eyes. "He's offering us a pittance compared to the full ransom." She showed her teeth. "Which has me thinking…"

"Cut out the middle man and collect the ransom ourselves?" Ashura guessed.

"Exactly. We could even turn the fool over to the girl's daddy, along with the girl. Say that we 'rescued' her. Viconia likes the idea too."

Ashura twisted her lip, chewing on the idea. "Skie's trusting us."

"Show's what a fool she is."

"And Eldoth's played us fair so far."

"Played is the right word for sure."

"Yeah. But fair. We've gotten paid, and paid well. And he's fought beside me." Ashura crossed her arms over her chest. "If we start stabbing companions in the back what kind of a team are we? And what if word gets around that we'd just double-cross anyone if there was a little more gold involved?"

Shar-Teel shrugged. "Sounds like we'd be seen as a typical mercenary band."

"Exactly. 'Typical.' I'd rather have decent reputation."

"Bah. You can't eat a good reputation."

Ashura's eyes narrowed, and she found herself wondering if her next words would lead to a genuine duel. _Ah well_. She knew how to beat this woman at least. "Ims said that when she met you that you were broke and wearing tattered hobgoblin armor in the middle of the woods."

Shar-Teel looked away and grimaced, but Ashura pressed. "How did you end up like that?"

There was a long silence as Shar-Teel glared off into the distance. "You may have a bit of a point. A tiny one." She pinched her fingers together to demonstrate. "But yeah, Yesna was up for doing any dirty job for coin, backstabbing and all. And it earned her a pretty hefty bounty. When some asshole named Greywolf gutted her my old company fell apart. Turned on each other." She looked over at Ashura and snorted. "Heh. Though, you know what I think?"

"What?"

"You're just coming up with excuses. Truth is you're just soft on the girl. Just like with that boyfriend of yours: you've got a soft spot for bumbling, starry-eyed little fools."

Ashura didn't disagree. "I dunno. Maybe. Also: Ims likes her, and she's helped us out a few times. Like or not, she's one of ours. And we don't rob ours. Got it?"

"Ha! Got it boss." Shar-Teel gave a mock-salute, then they turned and waited in silence for Eldoth and Skie. Once the shadows finished lengthening and the lamps were lit they would have a job to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may be asking: 'But what about the Seven Sons?' I fiddled with the order of Scar's quests a little here, but eventually doppelgangers and all the fun stuff involved with them will show up in the story.


	51. No Rest for the Wicked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning that there's a sex scene towards the end of the chapter.

_ "The Bloodaxe fellow swore up and down that his companions were about to betray him, so of course he had to get the drop on them first. Maybe he even believed it. Kind of admirable how he managed to end up with all the spoils, but I immediately made a note to never work with him again."  _ –Kagain the Clanless, _Gold, Not Glory: A Memoire_

* * *

At night the streets of Baldur's Gate were well lit, lampposts standing at regular intervals over clean, empty lanes. The city had a seedy side of course; Ashura had witnessed that well enough in the Low Lantern, but overall it was a safe and quiet place. It was funny: in the storybooks cities were always portrayed as filthy dens of vice and danger. Of course the way the locals in The Gate talked that rule still applied to Iriaebor, Luskan, and every city in Amn. She'd have to visit those places sometime to see for herself.

Maybe she'd fit in better too. Walking the dark and silent streets, Ashura couldn't help but feel like a thief, her eyes forever searching for Flaming Fist patrols as they went. A thief and a thug. That was the role Eldoth and Skie insisted she play tonight, after all.

_ Gods _ , how did she ever let those two talk her into this stupid scheme? Which tactic truly convinced her: the promises of gold or Skie's puppydog eyes?

Well, there was no point grousing over it now. Play a cutthroat, get paid, and hopefully don't get mistaken for a real cutthroat by anyone afterwards. A simple enough job. And glancing down at her beaten armor and well-used swords, it occurred to Ashura that Eldoth had been right. She _had_ actually cut a lot of throats over the past few months. Mostly of people who really deserved it, but still.

The company she was keeping fit the part as well. Beside her walked Shar-Teel, looming tall and wide in her horned helmet and well-kept scalemail, a hand always resting on the hilt of her sword. Eldoth strode at the front of their little procession, looking like a brazen pirate with his twinkling golden earrings, goatee and ponytail. Behind the three of them Skie hid beneath her hooded cloak, and sometime during their walk Viconia had slipped in beside them, cowled and veiled as usual; silent as a shadow.

A few strides more and Ashura turned to the drow to whisper. "So, how did Xan's investigation go?"

"A disaster, as usual," Viconia complained softly. "Yet somehow we managed to survive. You may thank me, if you wish, for the fact that your pet bard, the lovely girl and her dour little elven man all continue to draw air."

"I'm ever-so-grateful." A pause. "But what about the lecherous, tattooed elf?"

"He lives as well, though I guessed that you would not thank me for that."

Ashura chuckled, and they went along in silence from there, eyes constantly searching the shadows. The streets remained deserted, and eventually they slowed before a four story building, tall and broad but simple in design. A sign hung above the scratched-up door, displaying an arm that held a scimitar aloft, surrounded by glittering lights that seemed to be enchanted to constantly swirl and shift across the signboard. _The Blade and Stars_.

Instead of the front door Eldoth led them into a narrow alley and commanded that they wait while he and Skie disappeared for a few minutes, presumably searching for a trap. As they leaned against the nearby wall and bided their time, Ashura and Shar-Teel fished black pieces of cloth from their belts, adjusting their helmets as they fixed the masks to their faces.

_ A real cutthroat now. _ Ashura glanced around, satisfied that she could see clearly.

Eventually Eldoth and Skie reappeared, the bard slipping his hood over his head before reaching over to place a hand on Viconia's shoulder. "All clear," he whispered. "You and I shall enter the inn from the front and seek Entar's agent out. We'll give the rest of you plenty of time to enter through that window." He pointed. "I can assure you that the room on the far northwest side of the second story is empty and secure."

"Is this really necessary?" Ashura asked. "Couldn't we have just showed up early?"

Eldoth shook his head. "As soon as he got my message Entar probably sent people to scout out the inn. Best we all appear at exactly the appointed time."

"And more fun, too!" Skie's squeaked from beneath her hood. "Being all covert and sneaking in like T-words in the night! Don't worry. Eldoth has it all planned out."

"I'm sure." Ashura wasn't at all, but she followed Skie's lead as the girl pulled a pair of ropes and metal hooks out from beneath her cloak. She had yet to see any evidence that Eldoth was competent at anything besides convincing foolish women to do his dirty work, but perhaps this was his chance.

"These weren't made during the iron crisis, right?" Ashura asked as Skie handed her a grapple and began to swing her own over her head.

"Nope. They're finely made." Skie grinned. "Lifted them from daddy's stores myself." Her hook found the windowsill on the first swing, and after a little test she turned to Ashura, who shrugged and tried to throw her grapple as well.

Despite a lack of climbing experience it was easy enough to land the hook and walk up the wall, supported by the sturdy rope. Skie reached the windowsill first, silently pushing the leaded glass aside and slipping in. Ashura followed, and then they were both standing in a darkened bedroom. With a clink of armor that made Skie cringe, Shar-Teel landed in the room last, leaving the grapples in place and quickly working to light a lamp.

As soon as there was light Skie slid her hood back, grinning proudly and eliciting a raised eyebrow from Ashura. It seemed she had applied quite a bit of makeup to create the illusion of a bruised face and a bloodied lip. After showing her work off Skie crossed her wrists behind her back and gave Ashura and Shar-Teel an expectant look. "Now use some bed-cloth or something to tie my wrists. Just a simple knot will do of course. And make it loose."

Ashura shrugged and went to work, ripping a linen sheet. "You're putting a lot of effort into this scheme," she observed.

"Well yeah. It was my idea. Me and Eldy are going to live off this ransom money." She tilted her head back and smiled. "Somewhere far from my father's thumb. Yikes! That's a little too tight."

As she loosened the binding Ashura shook her head. "Do you really uh…trust him? To help you run away and live your dream and all that?" _(All that garbage.)_ "I mean he's…" _Should I say it? Bah, might as well_. "He's a bit of a-"

"Philanderer?" Skie cut her off. She turned and smirked. "Did you sleep with him?"

"Yuck! No!" Ashura made a face.

"You can be honest…"

A frantic shaking of her head. "Really. No. Just saw him with…women. Before we got to Baldur's Gate. I'd never…"

Skie just kept grinning. "Think someone's protesting too much!"

Shar-Teel just let out a "Ha!"

Ashura gave up. Convincing this impish girl of _exactly_ how repulsive she found Eldoth would probably be counterproductive anyway.

"It's okay," Skie went on. "I know exactly what Eldoth is. I'm not as naïve as people seem to think! Why, the first time I saw him was in the Undercellars, with Lady Areana bouncing in his lap and giggling. And the next time it was with Lady Kaella." She laughed. "The pompous old windbag was trying to be sneaky, at least.

"But when he's with me his eyes never wander, and he's going to get me out of here. That's the important thing. With the ransom money and the gems we took we're going on the road, for a grand tour of the Realms. And I'll never have to see that stuffy room in the estate again, or sleep in the same spot twice."

Ashura just watched her evenly. Sounded like the girl was trying to convince herself more than anything.

"I've been a prisoner in my own house for months now," Skie went on. "Daddy was strict before Eddard went off, but after his death…" She cringed at that word. "Well, he just lost it. House arrest, pure and simple. Until I'm married off, and giving him some heirs." She wrinkled her nose. "Like I'm some peasant farmer's breeding sow. I couldn't live like that. And Eldoth understood, and well…"

Ashura waved her hand. "Don't have to justify it to me. I'm not your mom." _And it's not like I actually give a fuck._ "You can do what you like. I just wouldn't trust him, personally."

Clenching her lips, Skie nodded a little. "He has that effect on people. You have to understand, he never had much of anything growing up. Put out in the street when he was tiny, and he's always had to hustle and pretend that he has it all together. But underneath that he's a good man."

Ashura just shrugged and Shar-Teel rolled her eyes. She just wasn't seeing the 'goodness,' but it wasn't like she was a paladin and could actually tell. Hells, she was hardly one to judge when it came to the matter of boys. At least she hadn't ever harbored dreams of running away with Hull and 'changing' him though, even at her worst teenage moments.

Turning towards the door, Ashura fought hard to change the subject. "So. They'll be here soon." She placed a hand on the hilt of her righthand sword. "I guess we're supposed to menace you?"

"That's the idea. Then as soon as the money changes hands, Eldoth will knock daddy's agent out and we'll climb down the ropes. And if they break the rules and bring multiple people, Viconia will take care of them."

Ashura wasn't so certain, but once again she shrugged, and then she drew her sword. "I'll try not to nick your neck or anything."

"Oh, you can if it's just a little bit. We want to really sell it and keep them back. Come on, you menacing, brutish women you! Let's see how tough you are!"

_ Ugh. She really is enjoying this. _

* * *

"Ah, now this is definitely better than the Elfsong," Imoen proclaimed as she kicked her boots off, wiggling her toes a bit against plush red-on-gold carpet. "We're moving up in the world! Yessir." She glanced down and bit her lip. There seemed to be quite a few holes in her socks. Not to mention that they were still soaked. With sewer water. _Yick._

"For a few nights at least," Xan murmured as he placed his pack upon the dresser. "Until our funds go dry."

"We really can afford to live it up a bit, ya sourpuss," Imoen countered. "You'd be amazed how much Halruaan Skyship components sell for."

That just brought out a cringe. "I still say those would have been safer in the care of the Greycloaks. Evereska would never build an armada of flying warships, but some of the other powers on the coast…"

"Oh pish! I edited the spellbook before I handed the package to Black Lily. Not like whoever buys it will get a ship working."

"And that itself may have dangerous, unforeseen consequences."

"Yup! That's what I'm all about."

Xan allowed himself a mild chuckle. "You are going to turn me into a rogue one of these days."

"Yup again." She reached over and rested a hand on his shoulder. "A corrupting influence on our innocent lil Greycloak. That's me." She scrunched up closer, but they were soon interrupted by the door swinging open and several servants marching through, pots of steaming water in hand. They quickly went to work filling the long porcelain tub in a corner of the room, the maid who had first shown them to the suite directing it all before turning towards Imoen and Xan.

"You may wish to deposit your clothes in here," the maid said as she nudged a nearby wicker basket. "We can have them laundered and mended."

"Sounds like a great idea," Imoen said with a smile. Several of the servants left, but the maid and a smartly dressed manservant remained on either side of the tub. An uncomfortable silence followed. "So. Um…" Imoen eventually murmured, fidgeting.

The maid bowed slightly. "We are here to assist with undressing and bathing, should you need it."

That sent Imoen's eyebrows shooting up.

"We can assist with the privacy of sir…" the man hastily added.

"…or madam," the maid finished. "Whomever wishes to bathe first."

"Urm…that won't be necessary," Imoen managed quickly.

"It is your choice, of course," the maid went on, "but we do like to offer all who stay at the Helm and Cloak treatment befitting a noble."

"Yeah. Well. We'll manage. And we'll put the basket out in the hall."

"Very good, ma'am." Once more the maid bowed, then she and the other servant scurried off.

"Sheesh," Imoen muttered as the door shut. "There's such a thing as being too attentive." She giggled and turned to Xan. "Ha! 'The noble treatment.' Did you have servants bathing you, when you grew up? Those rich purple robes and all that jewelry always had me wondering if you were some kind of elven royalty."

Xan shook his head slightly. "In Everska servants are practically unheard of. The _mythal_ assists with most needs that human nobles use them for. In addition, the Feiliens are actually a simple merchant family. My mother was a clerk, and my father a seller of herbs and spices. I hope that does not disappoint."

"Ha! Of course not. It's a relief actually, for little old-barmaid-foundling me. Ya just always act a bit like a prince."

Xan looked down at his vibrant purple robes, as if seeing them for the first time. He smoothed the fabric out with his fingers. "My people are all like this, I suppose." His eyes shifted to the tub, trails of steam still rising and a porcelain dish with soap and a sea sponge sitting on a table beside it. He and Imoen shared a look, followed by a long and indecisive moment, then without a word they both reached to the clasps of their cloaks.

Other strings and other garments loosened and followed, one by one, and Imoen couldn't help but snicker a few moments later when she found herself naked as a jaybird, her soiled clothes tossed haphazard into the basket, and Xan was still carefully folding his outer robes and setting them upon the bed. She waited by the bath, a hand on her hip and a foot tapping. "It'll all get ruffled in the wash anyway, you know."

He looked up at her, then down and away. _Aw. He's blushing. Heck, I sure am._ "True, I suppose." With that he hurried a little. _Such a challenge sometimes, getting him out of his shell_.

From her spot by the tub Imoen watched gaunt, pale skin reveal itself one garment at a time. It was strange. As she recalled he had been naked the first time they met, and she still felt horrible about that day. Finding this poor, broken fellow hanging from manacles, just wisps of flesh and a little bone, and she had just gawked and asked him a question, not knowing what else to do. It had been such a shock. She hadn't known that a man could even _be_ that thin before that day. Thin and bloodied and all torn up, yet still alive.

And still so frail. Heck, recently they had both watched the other nearly die, Xan trapped by the spider in the Cloakwood, and her happily skipping towards an oni scant hours ago.

Of course Xan had filled out quite a bit since the day they found him hanging in the Nashkel mines, though he was still the thinnest man she had ever known. His limbs were long and delicate-looking, his waste slender and his features slight, though there was no hint of fat to him, and she knew from experience that he was stronger than he looked, both from watching him swing the moonblade and all the times he had held her up with little effort.

The raised flesh from Mulahey's flailings was still visible across his slight musculature, but you had to know they were there and truly look to make them out on his pale, hairless skin. Smooth as a statue, besides the little patches of scars. It certainly made him appear quite exotic, along with that odd little feature she had noticed when they first met. Living all her life in a cramped space with mostly men, Imoen had seen quite a bit of male anatomy, but Xan looked so different from those fellows. Between the lack of hair and hood he seemed doubly naked.

Yet now that the robes were set aside (he still couldn't bring himself to toss them around,) Xan strode over to her with a bit more confidence than he had shown a moment ago. Funny how that worked. _Out of his shell_.

A slender hand rested on her shoulder and they shared a silent look. _I must seem as exotic to him._ All soft and round: face, breasts, belly, hips, thighs and all. _Not to mention that I'm a girl._ As she understood it he had little experience with women, and he was so difficult to read sometimes. Distant. Sullen.

But he was smiling ever-so-softly now, and a downward glance showed her that that exotic part of his had stirred to life. _Well, guess that's all I need to know!_ A deeper blush and a giddy grin bloomed on her face all at once, coupled with a fluttering in her stomach. Was nice to see that she could have that kind of effect on Mr. Tidy, In Control and Put Together.

Imoen took a trembling breath, put on her the boldest smile she could muster, and took his hand in hers. Together they stepped to the side and into the tub, sinking down into the warm water. Knee to knee and still a little shy, they passed the sponge between them, taking turns sopping up the water and cautiously scrubbing. _Washing off the smell of a sewer. What a romantic way to start the evening!_ He was still smiling though, as he traced his way along her shoulder with the sponge. A warm smile. That rarest of sights.

_ Well, I'll take what I can get. And best to do the taking before one of us  _ really _gets eaten by an oni or a giant spider._

By degrees the dirt and sweat of a long day washed off, and by degrees the scrubbing grew bolder. By degrees lips found each other and fingers sought new surfaces to explore, the sponge eventually forgotten.

* * *

Standing at the ready with your sword out while you wait for your cue to 'look menacing' is a really boring job.

Boring and nerve-wracking. You have to keep your ambush-face on while you watch the door; it just wouldn't do to get caught yawning. But while you're holding that pose time slows to a crawl, the empty minutes drag by, and you start to wonder if anything will ever actually bloody-fucking happen!

And perhaps if nothing happened it would be for the best. Aren't normal people grateful when a lifetime passes _without_ any terrifying moments of tension and violence? Skie sure looked bored too. Maybe-

The door stirred and Ashura raised her sword, careful to keep the edge well in front of the hostage's neck. For the sake of a 'good show' she also grabbed the girl by her bound-up hair and yanked back a bit, eliciting a squeak.

"Yowch!"

Shar-Teel had her blades out as well, longsword pointed at the wary man who stepped over the threshold and gave them a glare. He had the gruff look of someone military, dressed in a plain brown gambeson, his greying hair hewn down to no-nonsense stubble and a sword hanging from his hip. There was a heavy looking leather satchel under his arm that drew Ashura's eyes immediately.

_ And there it is. _

Eldoth entered close behind, flanked by Viconia's shrouded form, her violet eyes sharp and blazing beneath her cowl.

More quick glares around the room, then the stranger's eyes honed in on the hostage. "Lady Skie," he stated in a controlled voice. "Are you unharmed?"

Skie gave a weak little nod. "M-mostly, Mr. Elkart. They beat me, and t-they've said such awful, awful things but I'm…I'm intact." Her lower lip trembled and there were tears in her eyes.

_ Maybe Garrick and her can start a new company _ , Ashura mused.

"And she will remain that way," Eldoth cut in. "Provided you do nothing foolish, and payment is forthcoming."

Elkart gave a slight nod and slid the satchel off his shoulder, carefully holding it out and bracing it against his stomach. It looked impressively heavy. Once the sturdy leather flaps parted the distinct gleam of gold showed through in the lamplight. "As agreed upon. Ten golden trade bars. A ransom befitting a princess."

Heavy and hefty. Those things were worth around seven hundred gold each, depending on exact weight. Eldoth reached out for the satchel and the dour man pulled it back. "The hostage first. I must insist."

"First a taste of the gold," Shar-Teel snarled. "Do you think we're idiots?"

The look that briefly crossed Elkart's face suggested to Ashura that _yes_ , he very much did. Then he was back to being controlled and unreadable.

Ashura grimaced. _There it is again._ That tingly sensation she always seemed to get when everything was about to go to the Hells. More and more familiar every time. And strangely enough it was…thrilling.

"I must insist…" Elkart was saying.

"You may insist all you wish," Edloth countered, taking a step forward, "but it will not change the fact that you are in a _very_ bad bargaining position." His next words were singsong, a trilling hum that pulsed forward as the other man tried to draw his sword, freezing in place halfway through as a shimmer ran over him.

Next Eldoth easily snatched the satchel from Elkart's hands, then stepped even closer. For a moment Ashura thought he was about to draw his dagger and stab the paralyzed man, but instead Eldoth placed his lips right by the man's ear and whispered something that made Elkart's eyes widen and Viconia snicker. Then the bard turned and hefted the bag of trade bars onto his shoulder, casually strolling towards the open window.

Ashura had let her sword drop by now, and Skie took a step towards Eldoth, cocking her head with a quizzical look on her face. "What did you tell him?"

"Nothing to worry your pretty head over," he said with a pat to her shoulder before passing her by. Wordlessly he mounted the windowsill and slipped out of sight, climbing down as fast as he could.

With the bag full of gold bars over his shoulder.

"Shit!" Ashura hissed, putting her sword away as fast as she could and rushing to the window.

If Eldoth was going to slip off with all the gold, now would be the perfect time. He even had an invisibility spell that they had seen him use regularly. Maybe this was even the big 'heist' he had in mind all along, when he had made his introductions in the Cloakwood.

Shar-Teel was right behind her, catching on and grumbling too. "That slimy little fucker!" Together they scrambled through the window and swung out on the ropes, descending as fast as they could; first scurrying and then sliding down and dropping. It stung hard when Ashura's boots smacked the street, but she quickly recovered and sprung forward with both swords free.

After a few steps through the darkness she caught sight of the bard, further down one of the branching alleyways and standing still beside some cracked and toppled barrels. Not invisible and not running at all.

"Eldoth!" she hissed anyway. "Don't you fucking move!"

He did move, but it was backwards. Gaining ground, Ashura saw what he was retreating from a heartbeat later, just around the barrels. Four armored figures, a woman and three men, were advancing with heavy crossbows in hand.

Moving as one, the soldiers took a knee and then took aim, a fifth one in heavier armor appearing behind the little line with his arms crossed at his chest. And on that chest, and on the tabards of the other four as well, was the sigil of the Flaming Fist.

_ Eldoth, you idiot! You said you'd checked for traps like this!  _ Of course, how could you make sure no one was watching the inn from a distance? It had been a stupid, stupid plan from the start.

Another step backwards, and then Eldoth let out a frustrated sigh. "This really is a big misunder-" he began, then suddenly his voice shifted to a musical chant. " _Umbrial visi-_ "

The thump-thump of two crossbow bolts being loosed echoed off the stone walls, and the bard's spell died on his lips, along with the shimmer that had started to envelope him. Instead he let out a wheeze and dropped to his knees, a panicked shriek rising up behind them. Skie had reached the ground and was running forward, ignoring the soldiers as she rushed for Eldoth.

Acting on instinct, Ashura and Shar-Teel fanned out to opposite walls of the alleyway, and Ashura began to stalk forward, trusting in her boots.

The bowmen who had fired were attempting to reload and wind their crossbows as the imposing soldier behind them began to bark orders. "Remember," he shouted, "we need the girl alive at all costs!"

"Uh," one of the soldiers spoke up, "which one's the girl? I mean, they're all…"

Ashura and Shar-Teel shared a glance.

"She's the-"

The rest of his orders were drowned out by the tapping of Ashura and Shar-Teel's boots as they charged, along with the thump of the two remaining crossbows. As usual the sense that a bead had been drawn on her precluded the swish of the flying bolt by a hair or less, and Ashura managed to tilt her shoulders, feeling something brush against her chainmail as it flew by.

Shar-Teel was not so lucky. She let out a grunt as the bolt struck her mail coat, but it didn't seem to slow her. The grunt became a growl, and then a howl of rage, joined a moment later by a scream of pain from one of the Fist soldiers as she collided with the line.

And then Ashura crashed into the unit from the other side, face to face with a scowling Fist woman in a plumed half-helm. The soldier swung her crossbow like an awkward club to fend off the charge, but Ashura caught and steered it by with a swipe of her sword. A twist, and then the scowl on the woman's face turned to wide-eyed terror as Ashura's second blade plunged through the chainmail that protected the soldier's neck and the throat beneath.

A kick and a spray of arterial blood followed as the woman toppled backwards. The man behind her had the good sense to drop his crossbow and yank his sword free, but Ashura managed to catch the blade before he had gotten into a true fencing stance, locking it with her righthand sword while the left stabbed in and up beneath his ribs.

A stumble backwards, and then the man went limp and dropped, clearing the way for Ashura to witness Shar-Teel hack through the fourth archer's neck and cleave his head clean from his shoulders.

On the other side of the alley Viconia had her warhammer out and was exchanging blows with the Flaming Fist officer, easily dancing away from his clumsy slashes. Shadows swirled around the drow in a vague facsimile of armor, and there was a faint green glow hanging over her opponent, his pallor unnaturally pale and veins standing out as he poured sweat. Magical poison, by Ashura's guess. She had seen the drow employ that spell before.

They both raced towards the officer, but Shar-Teel made it first, lunging and running him through from behind. Once he had slipped off the sword and crumpled to the ground the alley fell eerily silent.

And that was that. Five dead city guards sprawled out on the cobbles in spreading pools of blood. _Ugh._ Ashura reached up and touched her mask, glad that it was still in place. Hopefully if they fled now…

"Please! Someone help!" Skie shouted, her voice echoing through the street as she knelt over Eldoth. The flights of two crossbow bolts could be seen sticking out of his torso, close together and beneath the ribs. With trembling hands Skie clasped a potion bottle over him, but she seemed at a loss.

"Keep your voice down!" Ashura hissed as she stomped towards them, her dripping swords leaving a trail.

"Sorry," Skie replied in a frantic whisper. "But I don't know how to…he's unconscious. How do I make him drink?" Viconia and Shar-Teel had slipped in beside Ashura now, and Skie looked up to the drow, eyes wide and pleading. "You're a priestess right? You can heal him!"

Viconia simply crossed her arms over her chest. "Whyever would I do that? The Nightsinger does not grant her gifts out of _kindness_." Her masked face swiveled towards Ashura. "This is the perfect opportunity to cut loses and loose ends, and leave this place wealthier for it. You know this."

Shar-Teel knelt down without hesitation as the drow spoke, wrenching the heavy satchel from Eldoth's still fingers while her other hand pressed at her own wound. The bolt seemed to have fallen out, and apparently it had not gone deep.

Eyes narrowing, Ashura looked to the drow, then to Skie. "Wh-what are you talking about?" the girl stammered, big doe eyes rimmed with tears.

It was _damn_ tempting. Ten gold tradebars split three ways. But had Eldoth even been running away, or had that just been her and Shar-Teel's paranoia? And the girl…

Ashura looked back towards Viconia. "Get him on his feet. Now."

"Really-"

"Really!" Ashura hissed, swords still in hand and rising a bit. "Now. Before this fucking alley fills up with Fists. We need to _go_! And these two are coming with us. So heal him. _Now!_ "

"Yes _alur_ ," Viconia conceded, her face unreadable beneath the cowl as she knelt and held her hands over Eldoth. "The bolts will need…"

Without a word or hesitation, Ashura sheathed her swords, knelt down and took a crossbow bolt in each hand. She almost pulled, then paused and looked to Skie. "Gag him."

"Wha-"

"Gag him, or we leave him. Your cape'll work."

Skie seemed to catch on, twisting up an edge of her hooded cloak and pressing it against the unconscious man's mouth. Then everything happened at once: a violent tug from Ashura, a fountain of blood from the wounds, a half-conscious and muffled wail of agony from Eldoth, and Viconia's hands pressing in and glowing with faint blue light. For good measure Ashura snatched the healing potion from the spot where Skie had placed it and knocked the cork off with her thumb, pouring a little of the liquid through the twin holes in Eldoth's shirt once Viconia's hands had slipped away.

"Make him drink the rest of the potion as soon as he seems conscious enough," Ashura ordered, handing the vial back to Skie. Then, without waiting for anyone to protest or recover, Ashura shoved Eldoth up onto his feet and steadied him as best she could, Shar-Teel reluctantly helping to shoulder the tall man from the other side. From there they managed to stumble down the alley and along the street, leaving the corpses behind.

And the paralyzed man up in the bedroom, who would recover at any moment. _Gods, what a mess._

* * *

The cry of release that had been building for what seemed like hours arrived at _last_ , and with it Imoen flung her head back, singing. Beneath her the feather bed was _oh_ so soft, enveloping; the crown of her head scraping and scraping against its surface. Above her the elven man's narrow body was _oh_ so firm, rigid and insistent.

She clung to his sharp shoulders, her thighs a vice pressed to his rolling hips as she let out cry after cry. One more tense and clenching shudder, then everything went soft and she sank back against the sheets.

There was still plenty of tension to him though, and the headboard smacked against the bedroom wall again and again and again, one sweet thrust following another. All of Xan's typical control was gone from his voice as he gasped frantically against her cheek. " _Oh! Oh! Oh!_ "

It was such a sweet sound: no stuffy robes, no pretense, no sarcasm, no distance; just him as he truly was beneath.

The headboard and the wall kept tapping, a few more sweet shudders racing through her, and then he stopped and let out another cry right by her ear. From there she felt him slacken, breathing hard and sinking down on top of her, hips shifting slightly then growing still. She slid her hands down and cupped his narrow, flat little behind, clinging on as the deep breaths rolled on and on.

Moments later, once he was breathing a little more evenly, Xan slid away, a gentle hand disengaging her thighs so that he could roll over and sit up on the bed. Back turned to her, he reached down to remove the lambskin sheath he had been wearing.

Imoen reached over towards him, feeling her way in the dark and placing a hand on his hip. "Get back here you!" she demanded.

He turned around and happily slid down against her. "Of course."

The reassuring pressure of his body was back again and his smooth skin there for her to rest her hands upon. And all was right with the world. She planted a kiss on his cheek, fingers fluttering against the points of his ears.

Shura had warned her that the first time she probably wouldn't feel much, and it might even hurt, but thankfully that prediction had been wrong. Maybe it was the fact that he had taken his sweet, sweet time; agonizing at points, awkward and shy and testing at others, but worth it in the end. Or maybe it was an elven thing. And of course she _was_ a little sore. How many hours had it been? Thanks to the magic ring she still wore she could make out his form in the darkness, but it seemed to be the deepest hour of the night.

"Yer gonna lay right here, right?" she whispered in his ear. "No standing around and staring out windows?"

"Of course. There is nowhere else I would rather be."

"Goodie! See, the seventeen gold for a room here was totally worth it."

"The bed certainly is soft."

"Oh it is huh?" She wiggled beneath him, adjusting and relaxing. "I worry sometimes that I can't compete with firm, chiseled, elven beauty." Giving his backside an affectionate pat, she rested her hand there once again.

He chuckled, warm breath against her cheek. "You have quite a thing for fishing for complements." A gentle kiss. "I will simply say that it is the softest and loveliest bed I have ever rested upon."

"Taking complement lessons from Coran now are you?"

"It is simply the truth." Another kiss. "I really do adore your bright spirit," and another, "soft curves," and another, "and nimble mind."

"Aww." That had her trying to think of a compliment to come back with, and failing. _Ah well._ Laying here like this in silence would work just fine. _Nowhere else I would rather be._

With a creak and a bang the door flew open, flooding the bedroom with light from the hall.

Before she even realized what she was doing Imoen had grabbed her dagger off the nightstand, and Xan had flipped off of her, hands raised in a gesture that she recognized as the beginning of a stunning spell as energy surged at the tips of his fingers. He held it back, however, glaring at the intruder.

"Ims," a familiar voice called from the open doorway as Imoen's eyes blinked back the light. "We need to go!" A pause. "Urm…uh. Woops!"

Not an assassin. Just an obnoxious friend with no sense of boundaries. _Ugh. I must not have locked the door._ "You could have knocked!" Imoen complained.

Ashura rubbed her arm awkwardly, looking about as bashful as she was capable of and briefly glancing away. "Yeah. Sorry." She was still dressed in her chainmail, along with her helmet and traveling pack. "But we still need to go."

"I really should release this spell," Xan muttered.

Imoen sat up and rubbed her frazzled head. "Go? Like…skip town?"

"Yep. Fast."

With a pout on her face Imoen scooted to the edge of the bed. "It's Shar-Teel isn't it?"

"You'd think so, but no. Eldoth's lying in the stables with some deep crossbow wounds, Skie's hysterical, and the Flaming Fist is probably hunting for them both. Not to mention they're being looked after by Viconia. If someone stumbles onto a drow tending to a wounded criminal…"

"Can we simply turn them over to the authorities then?" Xan asked hopefully. "Or the conman at the very least?"

"Tempting, but we might have to explain what happened to a very large bag of gold if we do that."

Xan slid to the edge of the bed. "Your prime motivation shows through, I see," he noted sarcastically.

Ashura stood firm, trying to hold back a smirk as she gave him an appreciative sweep of her eyes. "We're mercenaries. Might as well act like it."

"Captain Kagain would be proud."

"And there's also the matter of a dead patrol of guards…" Ashura admitted.

Xan sighed. "Of course there is. I would expect no less from you." He stood, shaking his head. "Well, that is certainly a reason to slip away." A pause as he glanced around the room. "There would not happen to be a wicker basket sitting by the door? I should hate to go on the run from the law without my favorite robe."

The maids had been polite enough to knock, at least, and when they were told to go away one of them had said something about leaving their laundered and mended clothing at the door. Ashura hauled the basket in and then went to the hall to pace while Xan and Imoen cleaned up and dressed as quickly as they could.

Stepping into her worn cloth trousers, Imoen found that they were fresh and crisp, and the holes in her socks had even been sewn up. Such service! She wasn't looking forward to sleeping on the hard ground again.

"Really sorry about this," Ashura muttered as they finally stepped out into the hall. "My mess, I know."

"My choice to follow you," Xan replied. "To my doom." There was a hint of a grin on his face, and the girls from Candlekeep shared a look as he shifted into the lead and they crept through the sleeping inn.

Ashura raised an eyebrow at her friend, a look somewhere between pride and wicked mirth on her face.

_ Dern.  _ Imoen had hoped that Shura would find out about all this the normal way, maybe over tea the next time they had morningfeast together. _Ah well._ She wasn't going to let a little thing like a midnight flight from the law bring her down! Nosir!

Imoen raised an eyebrow and grinned right back at her friend, adding a wink for good measure. Then Ashura snickered, Imoen giggled, and Xan sighed at them both.


	52. Fool's Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we meet Dorn Il-Khan

_ "A horse's first instinct is to flee from danger. A cavalry charge, of course, requires that it do the opposite." – _ Asarus of Waterdeep, _A Guide to the Proper Breaking and Maintaining of Warhorses_

* * *

The rain was just pattering against the crude roof of the barn where the companions sheltered now, rather than pounding the walls like it had a half-hour earlier. They had found refuge at the abandoned farmstead in the dark hours shortly before dawn, when the storm came rolling in from the sea. Now it looked like they would weather there for much of the day.

As good a spot to rest as any, really, and far softer and dryer than many of the camps Ashura had slept in over the past few months. There was plenty of musty hay, a roof, four walls, and though Leafall was approaching they were warm enough in their cloaks and blankets.

A good spot to rest, and to ponder where to go next. Following the nearby river further would lead to the coast and the small hamlet of Ulgoth's beard, or they could turn south and return to the familiar Coastway Road. South seemed best, provided they had not been declared bandits. South to somewhere civilized, like Beregost or Elturel, where they could spend the trade bars and send Eldoth and Skie on their merry way.

For now Eldoth lay moaning in his sleep, sweating profusely under the woolen blanket Skie had tucked him into. The girl sat right beside him, sleepless eyes looking down and filled with worry. Viconia's prayers, Garrick's minor healing song, and the potions had all done what they could, but from here the bard needed rest. Most of them did, after a sleepless night spent riding.

Imoen lay curled up in her bedroll in a corner of the barn, zonked out and sleeping soundly, and Xan reclined on the hay beside her, a blank look in his distant eyes. Beside Imoen slept Viconia, and Shar-Teel lay a little ways away, sprawled out on her back in a pile of hay and still in her armor.

Coran had not been around when they fled, though perhaps that was for the best. He had been spending a lot of time with his daughter, making sure she that she recovered from her ordeal. And he hadn't been tangled up in the ransom mess anyway.

Only Garrick was wide awake and somewhat rested. He'd actually been sleeping soundly when Ashura had swept into their room and told him they had to flee. Now he sat by the drizzling overhang and looked out to the fields and the growing grey light, strumming his harp and pulling a gentle, soothing song from its strings. One of those tunes sheep-shearers and milkmaids hum as they work, slow and easy and pleasant. Ashura had heard Dreppin and Imoen's stepsisters hum such songs before. She smiled as she watched him play, and he caught her eye and grinned right back. Always that easy-going look on his face, often accompanied by a song. No matter their misadventure.

And of course Ashura was wide awake. Too much adrenaline to even think of sleeping. Instead of sitting by Garrick and pondering the soggy fields and rain, she rested against a pole in the center of the barn, eyes on the satchel full of trade bars. Eldoth's stupid plan had halfway worked at least. They had their ransom money, and with luck they wouldn't get pinned with the deaths of the guards.

They could wander the coast for a time while they made sure that they weren't outlaws, then go wherever they pleased. Ashura, Shar-Teel and Viconia would get a trade bar each, Eldoth and Skie would take the rest and be off, and that would be that. A near-disaster, but a win in the end.

There was a clink and a shuffle nearby and Ashura turned. Shar-Teel was stretching and yawning as she stepped nearer, up from her catnap. "Keeping the gold close I see?" she asked.

"Until it's sorted out, yeah," Ashura replied with a shrug.

"Still seems like a waste. Though I guess it's the price we're paying for never seeing _their_ useless asses again." Nearby, Skie gave them a hurt look before turning away.

Ashura frowned and looked off as well. "I guess."

Squatting down beside her, Shar-Teel fixed her eyes on the sack. "You have counted them, right?"

Ashura frowned and gave the slightest shake of her head, poking at the satchel's flap and peaking in. Five bars on top of five. Sure looked like ten.

A sigh from Shar-Teel. "Bad business all 'round. Eldoth and that prick who did the handoff didn't even give us a chance to stop and test the goods." She poked a finger towards the satchel. "Let's see 'em. I promise not to run off with the gold, okay?" She was wearing her usual toothy grin.

Ashura nodded and turned, sliding the sack between the two of them, and the bigger woman untied it the rest of the way. When Shar-Teel tipped the bag forward ten slender golden bars did indeed clatter out, stamped with the stylized ship-upon-the-waves sigil of Baldur's Gate.

Lifting one of the ingots, Shar-Teel tested the weight in her hand. A frown grew on her face. Then she lifted it to her mouth and bit it, and her look turned downright murderous, lips twitching. She pulled out her dagger and Ashura found herself grasping the hilt of a sword, but Shar-Teel just used the blade to scratch the surface of the bar. Golden specs flecked away.

"Demogorgon's shaggy balls!" Shar-Teel snarled, shooting to her feet and hurling the bar across the barn. It clanged against the far wall and fell into the hay. "I knew it! I fucking knew it!"

"Not gold?" Ashura guessed, her voice even but her stomach sinking.

"It's fucking gilt-painted lead!"

Xan had shaken himself from his reverie and risen when the commotion started, and he was calmly approaching now. "Entar Silvershield did not become the richest among his peers by tossing wealth away," he noted. "It appears he has outplayed us all."

Skie's lower lip was trembling, a helpless look in her big doe-eyes.

"Bloody appears so!" Shar-Teel shouted, kicking the pile of ingots and then flinching in pain. "Fuck!"

The horses were stirred up a bit now, whinnying on the far side of the barn. "Guys…" Garrick interrupted. They ignored him, Ashura and Shar-Teel just glaring at the useless sack.

"Um. Guys!" Garrick spoke up again, shouting. He pointed out towards the fields. "There's something moving out there. A lot of somethings!"

_ The Fist!  _ Ashura shot to her feet and drew her swords, rushing to the open side of the barn to stand beside Garrick. Heavy streams of rainwater dripped from the roof before them, carving out channels in the mud, and beyond that over a dozen figures walked through the fallow field, their feet sinking into the churned earth with each clumsy step.

Not soldiers at all. There was no order to them, and no weapons.

The creatures were vaguely human in shape, but what skin they had was torn open, hanging over flayed muscle and glinting bones. Little skin and little clothes; they were dressed in rags that had rotted down to a frayed, uniform brown where they hadn't fallen away. Their heads were hairless beyond mangy patches, and their skin ranged in color from grey to brown to scabby red; even a rotten shade of green.

Behind Ashura the horses moaned and stamped, smelling or hearing the hoard of decomposing things that shambled towards the barn. "Well," she muttered. "Guess we know why the farm's abandoned." Or maybe Shar-Teel's shouting had simply awakened the dead.

_ "Chaos will be sown from their passage…" _

Above the tree line the clouds were bruised a deep blue-black and edged with grey, and somewhere in the distance a long roll of thunder sounded. A sword out at either side, Ashura stepped forward, into the rain and onto the sodden earth. She breathed in deep. Of course there would be an army of the dead waiting to greet her in the morning. _Of bloody course._ Father wouldn't have it any other way.

Or maybe she had guessed wrong about Davaeorn and Nimbul's words. Maybe this was just the Stormlord's doing. His way of smiling down upon her, after all the little burnt offerings she had given him as a child, back when her blood churned and raged against the walls of the gilded cage she called home.

Another rumble in the distance. Talos certain seemed to be smiling now.

She stomped forward through the mud, aware of Shar-Teel just behind her with a blade out as well. A web of lightning danced through the clouds, the storm that had once pounded the farm wreaking havoc somewhere further inland.

_ Yeah _ . The Stormlord was watching. Hopefully he'd be pleased with these things all getting hacked to bits. And after the night she'd had she _really_ wanted to see something get _destroyed_.

She charged.

* * *

A few minutes later when the last rotting husk crumpled to the mud, its face an open gash of black and red unrecognizable as human, Ashura didn't know whether to feel disappointed or glad that the chore was done. Clumsy, grasping hands had proven no match for steel and quick feet, and these creatures had been far less coordinated than the undead she had fought in the past. Perhaps it was because they had no master, at least not until Viconia had taken command of the last four zombies and held them in place while they were chopped to pieces.

Straightening to wipe her brow, Ashura looked about the field, and her eyes fell upon the dark elf. Viconia stood tall upon a muddy furrow, arms crossed over her chest and lank white hair waving in the damp breeze, face free of the mask. She shot Ashura a self-satisfied smile.

Behind the drow stood Skie, unease and disgust mingling on her face as she looked down at a fallen corpse and the sword in her hand, black ooze dripping from the blade. Xan and Shar-Teel were looking about the battlefield as well, making sure that no more undead were moving.

As she searched for a proper patch of wet grass to wipe her blades, Ashura approached the drow. "Nice job there," she said by way of conversation. "Any idea where those things came from?"

Viconia just shook her head. "Not raised by anyone with a will, at least. As you could see. They were mindless."

Stepping a little closer, Ashura glanced around. Skie had turned back towards the barn door, where Garrick stood and watched the field with his crossbow in hand. "I've been meaning to ask…" Ashura began.

The drow quirked her lips at that, amusement in her eyes. Ashura went on. "You heard what Eldoth whispered to that man he paralyzed. What was it?"

Mock curiosity came over Viconia's face, and she cocked her head. "I did? I recall nothing-"

"You did. With those ears of yours." Ashura sighed. "You're going to make this difficult aren't you?"

"I am?"

"You always do. Can't get you to pass the wineskin at the campfire without it turning into a series of negotiations. And an epic power-struggle."

Viconia just curled her lips up into a smile. "'Twas amusing that night when the boisterous elf took on my watch duty and gave up his share of the dried fruit just for a sip, no? He seemed to have thought something else was promised. The _wael_." She chortled. "You will note that I perform fast and true when my skills are _actually_ needed, _alur_. But one must find amusement where one can."

Shaking her head slightly, Ashura bent down and cleaned her swords. "Fine. Keep your secrets." She stood to leave.

"Ah. But secrets are such valuable currency to spend. And you've so much to offer in return."

Ashura sheathed her swords and started walking for the barn. "Not worth it."

A few steps and the drow had sighed and slipped in close beside Ashura. "Oh fine! Be that way _jiv'elg_." Viconia wrapped an arm around Ashura's shoulder and leaned in, close and conspiratory.

"If you must know," Viconia began, "he told the paralyzed man: 'The girl will follow me willingly wherever I go. If you truly want her back you'll have to pay more than this paltry sum.' Truly audacious, and foolishly so. I believe he was trying to squeeze even more payment from her father."

Ashura frowned. "If that's true then…seems like he wouldn't have wanted to abandon Skie back there. So he wasn't going to betray us…"

"So it seems. Disappearing with all the gold would have been the prudent choice, which is why you and your practical partner assumed that was the action the he was taking. But those such as he will always grasp for more. Simply snatching the 'paltry sum' and being done with it likely never even occurred to him." They continued towards the barn, and Garrick gave them a puzzled look as he put his crossbow away. "At least we can enjoy our gold," Viconia whispered.

Ashura cringed. "Uh. Yeah. About that…"

* * *

A few streaks of grey smeared an otherwise clear sky and bright afternoon sun, the stones of the Coastway warm beneath it as the procession of riders loped along. The rains were long forgotten and evaporated; the farmstead now many leagues behind. Skie would not miss the piles of rotting corpses they had left strewn in the field ( _Ack!_ It seemed that squelching sound her sword had made when it went through that zombie's eye would haunt her forever, even more than the sight and the smell of it all,) but she was already pining for the soft hay.

If there was a comfortable position to be found in a saddle she had yet to discover it, and after a full day-and-a-half of searching too. Her thighs and bottom alternated between aching, numbness, and being stabbed by pins and needles when she tried to shift and work that numbness away. The jostling and bumping in the saddle had even managed to stiffen her shoulders somehow, and even her neck was starting to ache.

The skin of mulled wine they passed around just seemed to make her throat more dry, and though it was a mild autumn afternoon, the sun had conspired with her thick leathers and warm cloak to make her feel a bit gamey. And whether it was from the beating sun, the jostling and swaying of the gray mare beneath her, or the _clompity-clomp_ that accompanied each step, Skie was starting to develop a terrible headache. She'd have to remember to stow her cloak away next time they stopped to rest, at the very least.

Hardly how she had imagined life on the road. The Tour of the Realms! But worst of all: Eldoth had barely said a word to her since he had recovered from his wounds. And the words had cut deep.

'You said you checked those alleys.'

The first thing he had told her, propped up against a post in the barn. Then he had sighed a disappointed sigh and turned away.

She had failed him. Failed them both. Not looked hard enough; not noticed the hidden corner where her father's spies had set up their watch. And now poor Eldoth had scars to show for it. And little else. Painted lead? Had father really cared so little?

Later that day Eldoth had spoken to her some more, at least. Not the full silent treatment. He had thanked her when she handed him the wineskin. And when she had changed his bandages. He had even made a half-hearted quip when he turned the wrong way and pulled at one his wounds. But he remained sullen, and worst of all his eyes always shifted away from her swiftly. Like he was disgusted.

His quick smile and dry wit were gone, and when he elected to speak there was a tired boredom to his voice, beneath the wincing pain. Nothing like the man she had known.

He had gone through a lot, of course, but she had once thought him unflappable. Especially after that incident where they bluffed their way past the gang of thugs outside of the Blushing Mermaid. She missed that. Missed him. The the man who had tossed her about as if she weighed nothing on the Mermaid's dancefloor that night. The man who had fended off every leering, foul-smelling pirate who had gotten too close to her with looks and sly words. A warmup on the scarred floor of the tavern, then later he had swung her about again with gleeful abandon at one of the secret clubs in the Undercellars, where the Mask Dance was all the rage. What a night!

And where was the man who had shown her how to knot a rope and climb a roof or a window with it? (A trick they had used to reach her bedroom many times, though the roof of the Harbormaster's Building for a picnic above the bay had been her favorite climb.) Where was the man who had taught her the secret words to pass into the House of Thieves, merrily greeting the glaring cutthroats as if they were old friends and eventually drawing a laugh out of some scary fellow named Rededge? The man who had shown her how to bluff at Archers, how to work the odds with the Year's Turning Wheel, and how to win at Braggart's Dice ('Say you believe them even if it's an obvious lie, until the pot's big and they're backed into a corner.')

And most recently the man who had shown her the best week of her life, while they danced and drank away much of the money from her gembox at the Elfsong and planned their little game of ransom-taking. Many days spent just nestled together in the sheets, and when that got tedious (Eldoth loved that word, though he said it with such panache!) they would climb down to the taproom in search of adventure, easy going and free as birds. No late night sneaking, no rush to return to her room by morn like their earlier adventures; just her and her sweet, teasing rogue together as long as they liked.

It had been almost enough to forget poor, sweet Eddard. To forget the 'crisis of heirs' her father had snarled on about as he paced the gilded carpets. To forget the way he seemed to have mourned more for his dynasty than his own son, and the cold look he had given her the last time she was locked away. 'This is for your own good.'

And now Eldoth was giving her the same sort of cold looks.

She shook her head. _It'll just take time._ Love takes time. And injuries too. They'd travel together, the scars would heal, and she would find a way to grow their little pile of coins and make it all better. Their means were meager at the moment, at the mercy of this strange adventuring party, but there was a whole world out there!

For now Eldoth was sullen though. Of course, 'sullen' pretty much described them all at the moment. The big blonde woman with the horned helmet especially, who kept glaring daggers at everyone but saved the sharpest ones for Eldoth. The dark-haired girl who seemed to be their leader just kept her horse trotting well ahead of the rest, glaring at the horizon, the dark elf's eyes were sharp and dismissive, and the moon elf just looked permanently sad.

Everyone in their silent procession seemed sour, except for Imoen of course. Her and the boyishly handsome fellow: Garrick. The one who had said nice things about her brother. He was slouching in the saddle, bouncing easily with his horse while his big blue eyes curiously swished from one high stone to the next.

The road ahead cut through rocky rises stacked like layer-cake and capped with shaggy grass and moss, and high above them trees swayed in the breeze, leaves and needles whispering. The Wood of Sharp Teeth.

Skie nudged her horse a little closer to Garrick's, and he turned to give her an easy smile. "What are you looking at?" she asked.

"Familiar country," he replied, eyes twinkling at her and then giving the layers of sediment another glance. "At least I think so. This looks like somewhere we passed through on the caravan trail, before…"

"Ah." She frowned. _Before the attack._

"Sorry."

"Don't be. Tell me about it."

"Well, the bandits loved to launch ambushes in spots like this. Why, maybe it was that very rock," he pointed, putting a little drama into his voice, "that a team of hobgoblins came rushing down with their spears pointed at us! Though I must admit…all these rocks look about the same."

"Oh my! Hobgoblins?"

"There were a lot of those about." He smiled at her. "Think it's safer now though. And we've already passed Peldvale, so we shouldn't be too far from the Friendly Arm."

"It must have been quite an adventure."

"I don't know if I'd say…" He twisted his lips in thought. "Well, I guess it was. You just don't realize it at the time. Too busy being scared out of your wits."

"Ha. Well do tell."

"Well, the Coastway has always been…" His eyes drifted and his voice trailed off. "Oh. Hm."

Their little procession had slowed, and now they were stopping, the black-haired girl at the front reining her horse in. They had just rounded a bend, and there were people ahead on the road: a hooded man and a blonde elven woman perched upon one of the lower outcroppings and whispering to each other.

The man instantly turned from his companion and began to walk forward with a purpose and a surety that made Skie nervous. His features were hidden beneath his cowl, and he was dressed in browns and forest greens, his leathers heavily buttressed with steel to protect limbs and vitals. A pair of short, forward-curving swords hung at his hip, and the woman was dressed in glittering silver chain. She remained on the rock.

"Hail, and well met," the man greeted them, his voice deep and rich, heavy with an accent that Skie guessed was from some Moonsea nation.

Skie glanced up at the rocks all around them and a shiver ran down her back. The sort of spot bandits love, according to Garrick. _Oh my!_ And something was moving up near a bush on that ridge! A crouching man, she guessed.

Ahead Ashura was silently surveying the outcroppings as well, then her eyes fell upon the man with a sharpened glare. She remained silent, but Garrick spoke up from just behind her. "Well met, traveler."

"Traveler." The man chuckled. "Why, that's the nicest thing anyone has called me in weeks."

The elven woman laughed as well, her voice sly and musical. "We should kill that one last, Senjak. Such good manners."

In a flash Ashura's swords were out and her horse stirred uneasily beneath her. "Seriously?" she asked, her voice equal parts incredulity and fury. "Seriously?!"

Skie noticed a faint violet glow at the edge of her sight as some sort of shield flared to life around Xan, and both Viconia and Eldoth had begun to hum in low voices. Garrick's cheerful smile had turned into puffed out lips, and his small crossbow had slipped from the small of his back to his hands. Skie reached for the hilt of her short sword, but she wasn't entirely sure what to do from there. It seemed kind of useless up here on the horse.

"We're a band of eight," Ashura went on, "armored and armed to the teeth with spells and enchanted weapons. And you're going to try and _rob_ us? You should save this highwaymen shit for traveling peddlers."

There was a flash of pearly white beneath the man's hood as he gave them an unperturbed grin. "But those enchanted items sell for so much more than a peddler's wares. And we've no fear. We've dealt with your like before."

"Not to mention," the elf cut in, "our men on the ridge have arrows aimed at your hearts. Best surrender-"

Whatever she said after that was drowned out by the whinny of Ashura's stallion and the thump of his hooves as she kicked him into action, gripping reins and swords all at once, the charge aimed square at the grinning man.

Skie cringed and ducked as best she could, and just in time: arrows were suddenly whistling by. Her chest pressed to the saddle, a painful jolt hitting her each time her horse bucked.

An arrow zipped over Ashura's head as she leaned low in the saddle, her horse thundering past the man in the hood, his smile never wavering as he easily dodged around the clumsy charge. An instant later a second arrow streaked in and caught Ashura's stallion in the rump, sending him listing sideways as he let out a pained shriek.

Then Skie's view was blocked by her own horse rearing back, out of control and screaming. Time seemed to crawl as she hung there, realizing that one of her feet had slipped from the stirrup and terrible visions of being dragged like a ragdoll half-on-and-half-off the panicked horse dancing through her mind. She pulled her other foot out of its leather loop, and then she was just holding onto the saddle-horn.

The horse stomped forward, pulling Skie with it and sending a numbing jolt through her nethers as she slammed against the saddle, arrows seeming to fill the sky overhead. She barely managed to draw a breath before she was thrown back again, the mare bucking and her hands slipping from the sweat-slicked saddle horn.

Then she was free of it. Airborn!

Limbs flailed every-which-useless-way and she realized that she was screaming. Had been screaming for a long time. When her feet touched the ground she pitched backwards, but instead of falling back she managed to lean in and compensate, arms pinwheeling the whole time. She pitched back and forth briefly, then sank down, scraping her knees on the cobbles. Better than flopping back and shattering your tailbone at least. (Maybe? It still hurt!)

As she pushed herself up on shaking legs Skie found Imoen right beside her, dismounted and drawing her bowstring back to take aim at figures who had melted out of the rocks before them. They wore cloaks the same shade as the grinning man's, longswords or axes out as they charged. Four…six…no, seven!

Skie realized that she had stopped screaming. Maybe she was out of breath. And somehow her sword had found its way into her hand. Fencing lessons from Master Meilum came back to her, seemingly from a lifetime ago, and she shifted into a side-stance.

On guard.

* * *

Short swords are next to useless in mounted combat.

And that wasn't counting the fact that Ashura knew next to nothing _about_ mounted combat. The storybooks were never very clear on the technicalities. And hells, she had really only started learning to ride a month ago, not counting brief childhood lessons from Dreppin and her dad.

As her lean stallion lurched and bucked unevenly down the highway, whipped into a gallop that the man named Senjak easily dodged without breaking his obnoxious leer, Ashura recalled that there had been a book somewhere in Candlekeep entitled: " _A Guide to the Proper Breaking and Maintaining of Warhorses_." Not a subject that had interested her, but now she wished she'd read it. Probably useless now anyway.

A meaty _thunk_ sounded behind her and the backside of the horse shifted dangerously out of line with the front. He wobbled briefly but kept upright, the amateur charge turning into full-blown flight as the panicked horse _ran_. Road and rock were suddenly rushing by Ashura, and she caught a glimpse of the elven woman's grin as she passed by. Another whistle overhead; the flight of an arrow.

Clinging to the out-of-control horse like this made her an easy target. _Got to get off._

She pulled herself up, wind singing by her ears as she stood in the stirrups. A foot placed on the saddle, a twist of her body, then she leapt.

The road rushed up and caught her feet with a painful smack, but she bent her knees on impact, holding her arms out wide so she wouldn't fall on her own damn swords. Then came that prickly sensation. Someone was aiming a bow at her. _Keep moving_. Push up. Rush blindly.

When the arrow clattered to the cobbles a pace behind, Ashura found that she was running towards the rock where the amused elven woman lounged. _Good!_ This was the kind of charge she knew. Leave the cavalry business to someone else.

The elf simply let out a glib laugh and hopped off the rock, her leading hand gripping a polished bronze buckler as she took up a spiked ball and chain with the other. A flick of her wrist and the flail was a whirling blur, her footwork making it hard to guess where and when it would be flung.

To Ashura's surprise the buckler flashed towards her first as the elf punched with it, the flail whipping around low in a follow-through as she dodged the blow. Instead of tripping and tangling with the chain Ashura managed to shift to the side, wincing as a spike grazed her and bit into the back of her leg. Her counter-attack rang off the elf's buckler, and then it was all she could do to dance and weave away from that damn flail as it whipped around again and again; everywhere at once and no good way to parry.

The flash of bronze and the flash of silver. Punching with the buckler as the chain snaked and spun; the elf had Ashura stumbling back and dancing for her life.

One of the punches left the elf open, but when Ashura slashed at her arm she was met with the jangle of chainmail, and instead of blood only a spark or two flew. For her trouble Ashura got her head twisted by a heavy impact, ears ringing under her helmet as she stumbled back and struggled to stay focused. To stay up.

Behind the elf, up on the ridge, someone screamed in agony. Ashura's sword rang against the buckler as she dodged another swipe, noticing a quick blur of motion behind her foe. Was that…the top portion of a man? Plummeting head-first and trailed by flapping intestines, a shower of blood splattering after as the body smashed onto the rocks below? The lower half swiftly followed.

Had Shar-Teel gotten up onto the ridge somehow? It seemed rather fast, and there were still intense shouts accompanied by clanging arms down on the road.

A heartbeat later there was another pained shout from the ridge. The sounds had the elf scowling and her swings slowed, and when a second body fell to rocks -voice raw as he screamed- the elf couldn't help but pause and glance over her shoulder.

Ashura took advantage and lunged, but the elf's reflexes were quick, and she tried to punch forward with her buckler. Slipping around and past, Ashura managed to catch the elf's wrist between her arm and her chest, stabbing with her other hand and driving her blade deep through chainmail and flesh. A blow to the head from the butt of the elf's flail had Ashura hobbling back, but the elf stumbled too, clutching at her wound and trying to slip backwards and away.

Ashura was not letting up. She whirled with the elf, pursuing-

-and then she let out a sudden, pained grunt as something heavy bit into her back; chainmail rent, nerves raw and screaming. She lurched forward and spun, trying to keep her eyes on the elf and whatever had just struck her at the same time. There to her right stood Senjak, one of his kukri's wet and dripping and that damned ivory grin still on his face.

Ashura grit her teeth, a bit lightheaded and panting hard. _Completely blindsided! Fuck!_ And he'd cut deep.

There was shouting to her right, clanging steel and the hum of magic. Her companions, fighting through the bandits. But too far for the moment. Still, she had her feet and her armor and swords.

_ Go for the smiley one first.  _ Her swords could match his kukris better than they could match the flail. And pierce his armor easily. He was moving in too, testing his way forward in a dueling stance. Ashura put on a pained face and slumped a bit, trying to look more injured than she felt. Hopefully he'd take the bait.

But before either of them made a move a third man plummeted from this rise above.

This one did not fall in pieces however, nor did he scream. Instead he hit one of the lower rocks with his feet and jumped forward from there, landing in a crouch a few strides from the elf. Unphased by the fall, he stood and stretched, rising to an impressive height, his armor clinking and the greatsword that hung from his hand dripping with blood.

The pompous grin finally left Senjak's face, and he took an involuntary step back, his companion doing the same. All eyes were suddenly on the newcomer, and Ashura realized that she recognized him from somewhere. Pale skin, a porcine face, and that armor…yes! It was the pale orc from the Friendly Arm Inn. The one who had mistaken Garrick for a server and hit on him.

"Senjak! Dorotea!" The orc's voice boomed off the nearby stone. "I swore I would crush the life out of you someday. Today is that day!"

"Dorn!" Senjak rumbled, turning fully towards the orc. "You should be dead or rotting in a Luskan prison."

The elven woman straightened up, and when she spoke there was a brief tremble in her voice, though she quickly forced it down. "I- Well, I for one am happy to see you Dorn. Leaving you to take the blame was all Semmeon's idea. I protested all the way, you know."

"Spare me your cowardly mewling," the orc snarled, hefting his sword. "I have not forgotten what you did in the end, Dorotea. Nor what you told me."

She shook her head frantically. "I didn't want to. You know how I feel about you!" She pointed to the other bandit, who was watching her in shock, back turned to Ashura. "Senjak was the first to agree with Semmeon's plan! He forced-"

"Dorotea!?" Senjak exclaimed. "What are you saying?" There were flexible strips of steel protecting his lower back, at the kidneys, but the upper portion was just covered with leather.

"How could you even say this?! After all we've- _Ah! Gahk!_ " A choked, croaking sound rolled out of Senjak's throat and his head jerked back as Ashura's blade impaled him from behind. With her other hand she brought her second sword up in an underhand grip, stabbing his chest again and again until he dropped.

Ashura found herself hopping back as Dorn charged towards her, but he stopped above Senjak's shuddering body, planting the end of his blade into the back of the man's skull. Something faint and misty swirled around the greatsword, rising up towards its bone-like cross-guard before slowly fading, the orc focusing his sharp, beady eyes on Ashura all the while. "You almost stole that from me," he growled. Then he yanked the sword free and turned from her, stomping towards the elf.

Dorotea watched him approach, her eyes briefly shifting to Ashura, then past her, then back to Dorn. The sounds of battle were gone now, the rest of the party advancing as one. Dropping her flail and raising her hands, the elf seemed to implore them all at once. "Please! If you'll just spare me I'll do anything you want!"

A shrug sent the orc's greatsword plummeting down, burying the blade deep between those pleading eyes and splitting Dorotea's skull with a rush of thick black blood that swiftly stained her golden hair. For a blink there was a waver behind the orc, faint wisps that looked like wings unfurling behind the face of a howling beast with tusks and shaggy fur and burning eyes. And above the slickened blade rose a second misty form: a woman's shape, twisting impossibly in on itself as its mouth hung open in silent agony. In that blink Ashura smelled the scent of a furnace. Of _The_ furnace.

The apparitions vanished as the sword slid out and the head fell apart the rest of the way, a shattered mess once Dorotea's body hit the ground. "Go to the Fires of Perdition," the orc growled. "That is all I ask of you. Happy to send you there."

Ashura stood up straight, flicking the excess blood off her swords and onto the road. "Yeah. Good riddance." She looked up towards the orc. "Thanks for the help."

"Hrm." He shrugged. "You handled yourself well enough. 'Til you let that fool sneak up behind you. Take my advice and be on your guard next time."

"Good advice."

Ashura's companions were closing in cautiously now, all eyes on the blood-splattered orc. He gave them a casual glance, ramming his greatsword into the dirt next to him. "My name is Dorn Il-Khan," he announced, "and I was settling an old score. I've been hunting those two for almost a year now. That's two down, and two to go. I…appreciate the distraction you caused. It provided the perfect opening."

"Glad to hear it." Ashura glanced over her shoulder. "Garrick. Eldoth. Xan. Go see if you can round up the horses. Provided we have any left. Last I saw mine had taken an arrow."

"Trotty's okay," Imoen announced, soothing her own horse with gentle fingers placed on his muzzle, though none of the other mounts were in sight.

Xan groaned a little and started marching down the road. "Wrangling duty," he sighed. "What have I been reduced to?"

"Why, to a world-class wrangler of course!" Imoen teased him. "The best at the job. Be proud!"

"Hey, if I could cast charm spells I'd be putting them to use right now," Ashura said with a shrug.

Together Xan and Garrick walked off, much as they had many times on the caravan trail after an ambush, the human clapping the elf on the shoulder and making some joke that Xan ignored. Eldoth was still standing on the road, carefully cleaning blood off his cutlass with a cloth while Skie stood behind her, staring dumbfounded at her own bloody sword. "Hey," Ashura snapped, at the same time shifting her traveling cloak aside. Viconia had slipped in behind her to silently examine the wound.

The Illuskan turned blank eyes towards her. _Ugh._ "I've seen you weave magic into song," Ashura noted. "Just the sort of thing we need right now." She pointed with a thumb. "So go see if you can find the damn horses and sooth them."

For a moment Eldoth just glared, and there seemed to be a bit of a twitch to his lips. Skie rested a gentle hand on his shoulder and he started to turn, hate in his eyes.

"That's an easy thing for you, right?" the girl asked cheerfully.

For a fraction of a fraction of a heartbeat Eldoth's face twisted up even more, looking at Skie with outright disgust. Then that fixed, smug smile was back in place. "Of course dear. I'm a master of soothing songs. As you well know." And then he was off.

"That one will be trouble for you," Dorn noted, once Eldoth had disappeared behind a rock.

"Already has been." Ashura shrugged a little. "Of course he did just kill a bandit or two for us. He's a capable fighter."

Shar-Teel was just glaring at the hulking warrior, but Imoen had let go of her horse and started moving in close. When she reached the orc she craned her neck to look him in the eyes, completely unperturbed by the giant sword with the skull-and-bones-motif carved from the cross-guard (or was it really carved out of bone? Ashura gave the weapon a closer look as Viconia stepped back, a whispered healing prayer finished and the wound at Ashura's back just itching now.)

"So, I'm just dying ta know," Imoen piped up. "Are you an orc or a half-orc? I'm always hearing 'bout half-orcs living all over the place but like…how do you tell the difference? No offence meant of course. It's just that yer this big fellow with tusks and beastly features. Far as I know that's what orcs look like? How does a person spot the 'half' part?"

"I'm a half-orc," Dorn stated flatly.

"Okay then. What's the other half?"

He glared at her and there was a long silence. Eventually Imoen bit her lip. "Urm. Sorry. Was just curious."

"Halfling," Dorn stated evenly, the same deep growl in his voice as always. "Obviously."

"Well yeah, obviously. I was thinking either that or gnome. I'm an eighth pixie myself." Hooking a thumb, Imoen pointed. "And Shura over there is fiend-blooded, but she's got it in her head that-"

"Ims. Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't tell random strangers-"

"But he's not one of those. He's…" A dramatic pause, then she took on the deepest voice she could muster. "…Dorn _Il-Khan_!" She giggled. "Shura's got it in her head that she's the daughter of some demon-god or something, and that's where her evil powers come from. I keep saying she's probably just one-sixteenth tiefling."

"None of my concern," Dorn growled, shrugging. Garrick was walking around a boulder already, two bridles in his hand as he gently sang and led the horses on.

"Yep," Ashura agreed. She looked Dorn in his sharp little eyes. "Good luck with the quest for vengeance."

He nodded, and she turned away. "Wait!" the half-orc rumbled.

She turned back. "Yes?"

"Shura." He chewed the name a moment. "Are you Ashura? Ashura Adrian of Candlekeep?"

She faced him fully again, hands on the hilts of her swords. "What of it?"

"I've heard of your prowess."

"Oh. Really now?" _Fame or infamy?_

"Yes. They say you slew the Bandit King in single combat. And that you drove a hoard of kobolds from the mines of Nashkel and made it safe again. I hear you also slew a notorious priest of Cyric who was building an army of the undead from the corpses of his victims."

"See!" Imoen interjected. "We're heroes!"

"Nice to know," Ashura said. "Seems tongues are a-wagging."

Dorn snorted. "They also say that you consort with a drow witch who trucks with demons and leads an army of giant spiders. And your other lieutenant is a mercenary woman who would sooner slay a man than talk to one."

Shar-Teel laughed.

"And they say your little band of deadly women have insatiable appetites. That you slept with half the bandits on the Sword Coast before turning on them in an orgy of murder and plunder."

"Sheesh!" Imoen made a face. "When tongues start wagging they really go all-out don't they?"

"Yeah," Garrick agreed, frowning. "Next tavern we stop at I'll have to start spreading some tales of my own."

Dorn crossed his meaty arms over his chest. "No truth to the stories then?"

"None," Garrick insisted.

Ashura chuckled. "Well, we did kill a whole lot of bandits. Some of us got captured by them too. Got pressed into joining their gang, and when we got an opportunity to turn on them we wiped their whole camp out. I'm guessing some of the survivors were happy to spread colorful stories."

"And the Bandit King? I hear he was an ogre, and an exceptional one at that."

"He's dead, along with the slaver-lord who worked with him. Took a lot to make that happen. Some of our companions died."

"I see. Well, if only what you say is true I could certainly use someone of your skills. To finish the last two names on my list."

Ashura glanced around at her bedraggled party and the ruin they had made. Then she gave the half-orc an even look. "How much are you paying?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little trivia: Dorotea Senjak is the secret true name of one of the scary immortal super-sorcerers from Glenn Cook's classic fantasy series "The Black Company."
> 
> jiv'elg- 'Fun slayer.' And as noted before 'alur' is Drow for 'superior.' So basically Viconia keeps telling Ashura: 'Yes boss,' although there may be some sarcasm dripping from her voice there.
> 
> And in the game I don't think Dorn actually has a sense of humor, but I gave him a little bit of one.


	53. Meatheaded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Dorn, Ashura, and Garrick totally gym-bro it up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel obligated to point out that the goriest part of this chapter actually come more or less directly from the game (or the Enhanced Edition, at least.) Beware of bloodsplosions.

_ "Never count a necromancer out as long as there are living things nearby,"  _ -Laspeera Inthre, _Mageduels: A Manual_

* * *

With a muffled clatter the armful of firewood Skie had been lugging fell to the dirt. Ignoring the sticks, she winced and held up her hand, fingers fluttering as she examined them. "Aw. I broke a nail."

Ashura looked up from the suit of chainmail in her lap. She had been making an effort to clean and maybe mend the armor, though it looked like Thunderhammer would know what to do a lot better than she. Half a day's ride to Beregost, though for now the sun was setting.

"That's going to happen," Ashura said.

Skie cringed and sucked on the offending finger. "Yowch! How do you keep from-"

Ashura held up a hand, displaying well filed fingernails. "Might be best to keep them shorter."

"Really?"

"Read in a combat manual once that short fingernails are ideal. If they're long they dig into your hand when you're punching people."

"Hm." Skie kept wiggling her fingers, well-manicured nails glinting a bit in the golden light; polished and painted a subtle shade of peach. "I think I might prefer simply _not_ punching people."

Ashura chuckled. "You can try, but it seems inevitable in this line of work. You could also ask Xan how he manages to never damage those long nails of his when he swings that sword around. He probably knows all sorts of elven beauty secrets."

That earned her a glare from the elf, before he buried his nose back in his spellbook. Most times when they stopped to rest he seemed to immediately start studying, and Ashura sometimes suspected it was just an excuse not to be sociable.

"How about you teach me instead?" Skie asked.

"Beauty secrets?"

A bright laugh. "No silly. Fighting. The tricks from those manuals you keep talking about." She looked down at her feet. "I asked Eldoth to teach me once, but he said it just wouldn't be right. 'And it would hurt too much if I harmed a hair on your pretty head.' He's really a gentle soul, in his way."

"Uh huh." Ashura pushed her undone armor aside and stood, stretching a bit in her quilted black shirt and trousers. "We can spar. Sure."

"I actually had a fencing instructor once," Skie said. "Believe it or not. He taught me basic form, but I think he was under orders to go easy on me."

"Well, I won't."

The heiress grinned. "Good. I keep telling people how tired I am of being treated like a princess, but no one listens."

Bending down, Ashura sorted through her equipment. "Since we don't have blunted weapons out here it's traditional to make do with swords tied into their sheathes. We can start with one gladius apiece. Ess-tee and I like to fight with two weapons, but that's tricky to learn and not necessarily better than just using one." She stood up, securing the pair of swords, scabbards and a little rope, but Skie was holding her hands out.

"Hold on a moment," she protested, still smiling. "Let me see if I can find a way to clip my nails first."

* * *

In the end Skie proved a surprisingly capable sparring partner (if you ignored all the whining.) She was nimble and quick on her feet, had dazzlingly fast reflexes, and though there was little heft behind her blows she had the weaving and stabbing parts down. In the morning before breaking camp she and Ashura would warm up and practice. Shar-Teel mostly sat on the sidelines, offering her usual sort of advice. ('Come on! You could have tripped her there!' 'You can use your feet for more than that silly dancing! Kick!')

They were traveling the road south towards Nashkel now, on the hunt for Dorn's next target. One morning, out in the stony scrubland near the foot of the Cloudpeaks, Ashura slid out from Garrick's embrace and rose to survey the camp. A glance into the other tent showed that Skie's bedroll was empty, although Edloth's was as well.

_ Maybe they snuck off together.  _ Ashura shrugged and walked towards the long-dead fire were Shar-Teel rested on a stone, sipping leftover Estagundian coffee from her tin canteen. She offered a sip to Ashura, who accepted with a nod. Bitter but invigorating.

As they sat by the coals, a noise somewhere to the west turned both their heads and had them reaching for their weapons. Then they heard it again, more clearly, and Shar-Teel settled back.

Sounded like a grunt. "Ugh," Ashura groaned. "I can guess what that is."

Shar-Teel chuckled. "You'd guess wrong. You've got a dirty mind."

"I do?"

Standing, Shar-Teel brushed her leggings off and pointed. "Go see for yourself. You may not have noticed, but he does this every morning."

"Uh?"

"It's just some meatheaded pig, dancing with a rock. A fitting partner for him I say. It probably has more brains than he does."

_ Urm. Do I really want to know?  _ But now she was curious. _Dancing with a rock?_

Rising and turning towards the sound, Ashura walked a ways from the fire and over a rise were dry, golden grass swayed. There in a low furrow that was probably a creek in wet weather stood Dorn Il-Khan, holding a round stone the size of an ogre's head between dusty fingers. His greatsword stood imbedded in the earth a few paces away, and he had left his armor behind, dressed now in the ragged trousers and vest he wore beneath.

_ Oh. He's doing his morning calisthenics. I do have a dirty mind don't I?  _

She approached casually and he gave her a brief glance before returning his gaze to the field, holding the stone up and then chopping down from his ear to his knee in a diagonal motion. Lifting the stone again, he repeated the move from the opposite shoulder. Then again; lunging and lifting, deep breaths timed with each motion.

"Rocks," Ashura noted. "Never would have thought of that."

Dorn ignored her, twisting his body through another repetition, then another. Eventually he lifted the stone high over his head, then bent to one side, holding for a beat. Then he bent the other way, swaying like a tree. "That is why…" Dorn growled, panting a bit "…you're so shrimpy."

"Bah."

Swinging the great stone down, Dorn held it level with his broad chest. He was thicker with muscle than even Minsc had been; almost grotesquely so. Covered in a few more scars too: Ashura could make out crisscrossed skin at his chest and down his abdomen, and there were raised lines all along his meaty arms. "The orcs of my tribe would test each other with stones such as these," he stated flatly. "Issuing challenges to see who could swing them around the longest. Or toss the heaviest."

"Well, no need to challenge me. I figure you're stronger."

"Perhaps. The women of my tribe never participated. Their duties were confined to the young and the cookfires."

Ashura scowled. "Lovely."

Dorn lowered the rock and shrugged slightly, then brought it up again, tensing and holding for a count. "Perhaps if my tribe had followed your ways they would not have been crushed by a band of ogres when I was still small. I remember that day: the women and children huddled and helpless in the long house while our warriors were brought down one by one. Since that day I've been shown that women can fight just fine with training, and more sword-arms are always an advantage. Even one as weak as your red-haired friend can at least draw a bow."

"Ims is a good shot. Yeah."

"And you are stronger still." He took a step forward and offered her the rock. "But there is always room for improvement." An obvious challenge.

With a deep breath Ashura reached out and pressed her hands against the stone's rough surface. Dorn let go of it like it was nothing, and she lurched forward, struggling to hold the weight up and pulling it closer to her body. _Ugh. Heavier than it looks._

Scowling and setting her feet firm, Ashura breathed in and gradually raised the rock. Chest level. Then in front of her face. Then it was high above her head.

A little victory, but she couldn't imagine casually flinging it around like the half-orc had. She carefully eased it down, then let go.

"A bit much for me." Ashura held out a finger. "Think I prefer this one." She slipped down onto the grass, setting her arms and legs out a bit. Then with a deep breath she swooped down and forward, shoulders and head high, hips close to the ground and arms supporting most of her weight. A breath out and she pushed back to the starting position.

"Stretching like a cat?" Dorn asked incredulously.

"Yep." Another stretch. "That's literally what it's called in the manuals. 'Lion Stretches.' Harder than it looks, and you really feel it in the arms."

Dorn shook his head. "You should just find a lighter stone."

"Bah." Again she rocked forward. "Prove that you can do thirty of these, and then you can brag."

Dorn laughed. "Very well." He dropped to the ground, then paused. "Hm. How do you do this exactly?"

She chuckled and walked with her hands and feet until she was beside him. "Down and forward like this. Then hold. Then back like this."

He grunted and wobbled a bit as he went through the motion. Then again. "Alright, I will admit that this is harder than it looks. Slightly." Steadying himself, he tried to do it again, determined to show her that he could.

Ashura dipped back, and when she swooped up again she found herself looking over at Garrick, a confused frown on his face and his arms crossed at his chest. She shot him a smile anyway. "Hey Garrick. Care to join us?"

"I uh…don't think I'm that flexible."

Her smile became a deep smirk. "You're plenty flexible." Another rocking motion. "One of these days…" And another. "…I'm going to find…" And another. "…a way to get you to stop…wew!" She wobbled up onto her feet. "To stop being so lazy and exercise more than just those lute-playing fingers of yours."

Dorn rose as well, brushing his cloth leggings off. "Why do you tolerate such a weakling anyway?" he growled.

"My good manners and sweet singing-voice, I should hope?" Garrick suggested.

Ashura pointed and started to say something, but Dorn cut her off. "That won't save you from a hoard of trolls."

"Hrmph!" Garrick muttered. "Well, if I must…" Now it was his turn to slip down onto hands and feet, then raise his body and straighten his back. He faced forward and glared a little in that direction. "Hm. Is this how you do it?"

"Yep." Ashura patted his shoulder lightly. "Come on. You're stronger than you think."

And he was, although he was completely unused to the odd exercise. By the third lion stretch Garrick was wobbly, but he soldiered on to nine before he lost his balance and slipped to the ground. He shook his head and chuckled self-effacingly as he got back onto his knees.

Reaching down, Dorn placed a hand on the bard's shoulder and helped pull him the rest of the way up. Ashura was expecting a taunt, but instead the half-orc simply said: "As good a start as any. Keep trying." And with that he turned, lifted his sword, and started back towards the camp.

Garrick shook his head as they watched the big half-orc walk away. "Yeah," he said sarcastically, "someday soon I'll have muscles like those."

"Gods, I hope not," Ashura muttered. Garrick gave her an odd look and she cocked her head. Then a little realization struck her, and she laughed. "Oh! Are you jealous or something?"

Garrick's eyes went to the sky. "Urm. Well, maybe a little. I mean, here you were on your hands and feet with that big burly fellow out in a field and…"

"Bleck." Ashura shook her head. "You really have a dirty mind. I never even...I mean, can you imagine?" She made a face. "It'd be like laying under a big bag of anvils."

A wide-eyed look of horror bloomed on Garrick's face.

_ Oh woops. Conjuring that image up was probably a bad idea.  _ Ashura slipped an arm around his shoulder and led him towards the camp. "Quit being so thin-skinned." She ruffled his hair and then pulled him even closer. "You sensitive artist you."

The camp had awakened a bit by now. Imoen and Xan chatted quietly at one side of the fire, the flames rekindled just enough to brew herbal tea with the little brass pot and tripod they carried. From a nearby stand of trees Eldoth and Skie were drifting into view as well, both of Skie's arms encircling the bard's as she hung on and smiled brightly. Her hair was a mess, clothes disheveled, but Eldoth looked as neat and put together as always. There was a bored, distant look on his face as well, head turned away from the girl.

_ Hells. He looks downright miserable. Wonder what the story is there. _

A few steps later Eldoth glanced over at the campsite and his face shifted, his casual grin returning. He whispered something to Skie and she scurried off to one of the tents, emerging a moment later with an iron pan, a packet of butter, and some hard bread wrapped up in cloth. She made her way to Imoen and Xan's little fire and sought some space to make breakfast.

"Quite a dear isn't she?" Eldoth casually asked Garrick as their paths converged and he sat down. "Grew up being waited on by countless servants, but she's learning her way around a cooking fire."

Shar-Teel shot them both a glare, then made a gesture with the dagger she had been sharpening. "I know my way 'round a fire too, pig. Especially when it comes to skewering and roasting _things_ over it."

"An important start I suppose, but you really ought to learn how to bake."

Shar-Teel ignored the comment and the man who had made it, turning her blade over and giving it a few more careful strokes before she stood and stomped off. Soon she was packing her things and preparing for the road.

"Ya ought to be careful with that sort of talk," Imoen said in a low voice aimed at Eldoth. "Ess-Tee got threatened with domestication once recently. She didn't take it too well. I think lots of men died."

"Domestication?" Eldoth raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like a strange story there."

"Yeah. Her dad really wants to marry her off. He's some sort of noble or something." She laughed. "Can you imagine?"

Turning his head, Eldoth watched as Shar-Teel bent down to yank a tent peg free with a single motion and a grunt. "I simply cannot."

* * *

A crowd had gathered by the large creek that cut through the hamlet of Nashkel, some cheering, some jeering, but most just giving the bald man in their midst puzzled looks. He was dressed in bracers, loose red trousers and sturdy boots, his upper chest and arms left bare to display swirling tattoos, and he seemed to be giving some sort of demonstration. At first Ashura guessed it was a dance, but the high kicks and sharp punching combinations seemed to imply that it was some form of unarmed martial art.

Impressive too, especially the high kicks, which he would effortlessly hold with his foot pointed straight up, then bend his knee without so much as a quiver through the rest of his body. Impressive muscles too. He was built both lithe and strong, and moved with precision and grace, maintaining a blank stare through the taunts some of the male villagers were shouting. From time to time he would swivel and punctuate a kick or a punch with a battle cry; usually the words: "I will show you justice!" intoned in a thick Calishite accent.

Xan casually waded into the crowd, giving the performer a brief, appraising look before questioning the onlookers. The party was were searching for one of Dorn's companions, a necromancer named Kryll.

The woman had supposedly been seen heading towards Nashkel, and it helped that her features were fairly distinct: an unblemished face and long silver-grey hair. According to Dorn she was nearing her seventieth summer, but had used the life-stealing arts to prolong her youth.

It didn't take long for Xan to get a bite. Or several. "She walked off with my husband!" a well-dressed woman in red silks shouted.

"And mine as well," a wiry peasant put in, arms crossed tight at her chest. "Put a spell on 'im, she did."

"A spell?" Xan asked in a flat tone, though the woman seemed to take offense.

"Aye. My Glen is a lot of things, but he ain't no trollop-chaser! And when poor, addled Noober spotted him heading out the other night behind the white-haired woman, 'e said there was a queer look in Glen's eyes. All glazed and bespelled. And Karp and Lady Taris' husbands were in tow with 'em!"

"That sounds like Kryll," Dorn rumbled. The pair of women gave him a glance and shuffled back a bit.

Turning, Xan raised a hand for silence. Then, in as soothing a voice as he could muster he asked: "Where were they headed?"

The peasant pointed to the first woman who had spoken. "Lady Taris followed 'em the farthest."

The lady nodded. "Aye. Out into the wilderness as far as I could go, to the east, following my dear Hagar. They followed the feet of the Cloudpeaks, I think. The people of this town say that Firewine Bridge is in that direction, but I had to turn back. I hear there are horrid monsters out there, and my poor, poor Hagar… He ignored my cries!" She shook her head, worrying a handkerchief between her hands.

Once they had gotten all the information that they could and walked away from the crowd a bit Ashura turned towards Dorn. "Husband-stealing? Sounds kind of ridiculous."

Dorn just shook his head, eyes on the eastern horizon as if he could see his quarry out there somewhere past the houses and trees. "Kryll always kept slaves around, usually men and usually charmed into obedience. She used them both to perform mundane tasks and to steal lifeforce when needed. 'Bloodbags,' she called them."

After a pause he shook his head a bit. "Of course she usually bought them in the markets of Luskan. Daring, and risky, to ensorcel and run off with three at once. And to steal them from a town with a militia."

"An act of desperation?" Xan suggested.

"Perhaps. That would be good wouldn't it? We want our prey desperate."

"Bloodbags," Imoen grumbled. "Well that's just lovely."

Dorn cast his eyes upon her. "You like to play the hero. Perhaps you'll get to rescue these hapless men." A pause. "Or more likely they'll end up drained husks or undead abominations. Regardless…"

"East then?" Ashura asked. "To Firewine Bridge?"

Dorn tapped the bag at his hip. There was hardly a clink, but earlier he had been nice enough to show Ashura the gems he kept there along with his gold. No gilded paint to it. "Aye. And as promised half of this is yours once I plant my sword in Kryll's heart, along with any plunder you want. I've no need for coins and gems. Only blood."

* * *

"Ugh," Skie complained. "I officially disapprove of this whole bounty hunting business. Way, way, _way_ too much walking without anything to show for it."

"At least we have horses," Ashura pointed out. "First time we went up and down the Coast it was on foot."

"So my butt ends up sore instead of my feet?" Skie snapped. "What a tradeoff!" She crinkled her lips a bit once the words had left them. "Sorry. Sorry. I chose to be an adventurer. I need to accept the hard stuff along with the good."

"In silence, preferably," Viconia hissed.

Ashura just shrugged and Imoen gave Skie an encouraging smile. It _had_ been a long and roundabout journey, though if the shattered columns they were passing was any indication then they were nearing the Firewine ruins. They rode through deep amber grass and desolate fields, pocked here and there with holes and shattered masonry beneath an open sky the color of slate.

In the distance the ground fell away to reveal flat, sandy soil, and eventually a great bridge of cracked black stone came into view, spanning the emptiness. Centuries ago Firewine Bridge had been an elven trading town, leveled in some sort of arcane battle that had changed the very course of the river and left little standing beyond the bridge itself. It was unclear what the battle had been fought over, though most accounts suggested that fey'ri sorcerers had been involved, and that after the destruction anything of value had gradually been looted and carted away. Rumors also spoke of a series of connected cellars that still lay beneath the ruins. That did seem like the perfect place for a rogue necromancer to hide.

More promising still: a smear of smoke hung above one end of the bridge, likely from a campfire. Perhaps this would be more straight-forward than they thought. You can always hope.

"Bloodbags," Imoen repeated yet again, shaking her head as they trotted closer to the bridge. "You really kept some pleasant company, huh?"

Ignoring the sarcasm, Dorn simply nodded. "For a time we ravaged and raided our way across the Spine of the World, and none were stronger. We took what we pleased, be it from tombs or foolish challengers. Perhaps we grew too greedy. It never occurred to Semmeon that our rivals would unite against us, or that they would spread rumors that we were petty bandits and thieves."

"Are you sure you _weren't_ a bunch of bandits?" Imoen asked. "You kinda make it sound that way."

"Bah. You know nothing, brat. We followed the rules of 'civilized' men. As far as such things go in Luskan and the north. The thralls that Kryll owned and casually discarded were fairly bought and paid for, and we never attacked traders or homesteads."

"The more I hear 'bout it the more I never want to get within a hundred leagues of this Luskan place."

"That's probably for the best. You would not last a minute there."

"Pfft." Imoen swung down from her saddle and landed in the grass, adjusting her bow. "Not my problem if you underestimate me."

The rest dismounted as well, and Dorn began to march directly towards the rising smoke. Ashura moved in swiftly beside him, and Imoen hastened to keep up.

"Um…" Imoen spoke up. "Shouldn't we scout things out first?"

"Bah!" Dorn growled. "Kryll will have a thousand ways to spot scouts, no matter how clever you think you are. The eyes of her 'pets' see all." His pace increased, and Imoen had to jog to stay close behind. "Best to be direct, and overwhelm her swiftly with our numbers." He hefted his sword. "Surprise and numbers. That was how my companions took me down. It will be fitting."

"Do we…even know that it's…Kryll?" Imoen puffed as she ran behind him. Ashura kept up with far less effort, silently jogging beside the half-orc with her swords drawn. _Bet she's enjoying this. Looks like she's finally found a kindred spirit in the hard-headed, hard-charging department._

"The witch is ahead!" Dorn growled as they pushed forward through the brittle grass. "I can feel it in my blood." Not to be outdone, Shar-Teel was racing to catch up with them, but the others lagged well behind.

Rolling her eyes, Imoen slowed just enough to draw a piece of dried gum from her pouch and run through the motions of her invisibility spell. Once she had vanished she picked up the pace, holding her bow out and placing an arrow against the string. _Someone has to be cautious._

The source of the smoke was hidden behind a single stone arch that seemed to have once been part of a greater wall, rubble strewn all about its feet, and when they rounded it they came upon a camp. Quite the setup too: the cookfire was broad and well-kept, grates set up above the even flames where tea brewed, water boiled, and a big pot of stew simmered. There was a large yurt standing in the shadow of the arch, and a cushioned chair carved from a great log sat before the fire.

A woman in a simple shawl and peasant's dress knelt with her back to the intruders, tending to the stew and completely ignoring them, and on the great chair lounged a second woman in a high-collared robe, two men in roughspun clothes standing at either side of her like statues, their eyes blank and distant. A third man crouched nearby, polishing a bronze bowl, and all of the peasants had red runic markings painted across their faces.

The robed woman had pale white hair and vibrant, youthful features, and she did not seem the least bit surprised as the sight of Dorn and Ashura. By way of greeting she smirked and raised manicured fingers heavy with rings.

"I knew you would show yourself eventually, Dorn," she said in a teasing tone as the earth nearby _erupted_.

Bony, claw-like hands burst from the dust near Dorn and Ashura's feet, snatching at their ankles. They both lost their balance and pitched forward, swords and jaws smacking the earth as Shar-Teel skidded to a stop behind them and hopped back.

"But it's so nice of you to arrive with haste," the woman on the throne added, rising to her feet.

"Kryll!" Dorn snarled as he fought to push his way up from the ground. "Your pets cannot stop me!"

Imoen swiveled her bow, pondering what to do with the one arrow she could shoot while still unseen. She crept in closer. Best make it count.

"They'll slow you well enough, fool!" With a wide grin and outstretched hands, Kryll gestured towards the men at her side, and they stood up taller, taking a few steps forward before flinging their heads back. Their bodies began to convulse, and the woman at the stewpot straightened up and joined them.

Suddenly the runes on the thralls' faces took on a hellish glow, seams of energy expanding from the edges of the pant to crawl down their skin. The thralls shook and gibbered mindlessly, clawing at their chests and arms, rips in their clothing revealing burning cracks that rapidly grew. Flesh rended and burned, mouths flew open wide, and instead of screams a terrible hiss erupted from all three throats. Then as one the thralls seemed to simply _explode_ in a shower of rags and sodden black flesh and pink mist.

The bloody rain splattered Kryll, soaking her face and robes, but the grin on her face only grew. And once the pieces had fallen to the earth the skeletons of the thralls remained; raw red bones held together by magic and strings of tendon. Pinpricks of fire leapt to life in their empty eye sockets, and new seams of red light flared up across their limbs. As one the undead clattered forward, the witch watching over them with pride.

Ashura and Dorn had managed to hack away the skeletal hands that held them by then, finding their feet. Shar-Teel raced past them both, taking a swing at one of the creatures, but the skeleton blocked the blade with its forearm and the bone held firm, boosted by whatever sacrificial magic Kryll had employed.

The other two undead faced Ashura and Dorn, clawed hands whipping forward. Blades and bones resounded off each other as the warriors swung back.

But none of the undead or their mistress had noticed Imoen, or the fact that she'd crept past the melee. _Now or never._ She stood up straight, took a side-stance and drew back until her bow creaked, aiming pointblank at the witch.

When she let loose the air shimmered about her, the arrow appearing mid-flight. There was a ripple as the enchanted arrowhead struck some sort of barrier, but it punched through the magic and pierced robes and flesh, sending Kryll stumbling back.

The skeletons stuttered and hesitated too, seemingly linked with their mistress, and Dorn, Ashura and Shar-Teel took full advantage of the pause, hammering hard with their blades.

Kryll continued to wobble on her feet, clutching at the arrow now imbedded deep in her chest. Then she whirled and made a hobbling retreat, a crossbow bolt streaking in but bouncing harmlessly off her arcane protections. The man who had been polishing the bowl stood and followed her, and a fourth enthralled peasant slipped out of the yurt as she passed it, running at her heels as well.

By then Imoen had drawn a hasty second arrow and loosed, grinning when it sunk into Krylls side, between her ribs. Somehow the necromancer managed to wobble forward though, only slowing a little before she slipped around a corner and vanishing behind a half-toppled building.

A few moments later -once the full force of the group had been brought to bear- the skeletons were reduced to bits of bone and sinew scattered across the grass, and Dorn was marching ahead towards the spot where the necromancer had disappeared.

"Would you slow down, ya bufflehead!" Imoen shouted as she followed him, and he did indeed stop, looking through a doorway and down set of darkened steps.

"Kryll is-" he began.

"Possibly leading us into a trap," Imoen pointed out. "And possibly surrounded by an army of undead. So let's _possibly_ exercise a little caution? Okay?"

"If she escapes…" Dorn growled.

"Gods! Yer as bad as Kivan. And he…" She scrunched her face up and looked off.

Swinging around, Dorn faced her. "Did your friend get his vengeance? Before he died?"

Imoen bit her lip. "I suppose he did."

"Then that is all that matters." He turned back to face the dark passageway, though he did wait for the others to catch up before he entered.

* * *

The shriveled husk that had once been a man lay face up, next to the discarded arrows, his desiccated eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Kryll had been easy enough to track a moment ago; all they had to do was follow the blood trail. From here it would be trickier though. The passages beneath Firewine Bridge seemed to branch out repeatedly and at random, veering at sharp angles.

"Wonder if there's a chance Kryll's as lost as we'll be wondering through here," Imoen pondered.

"No chance." The voice was a faint and dry whisper that rose from the lips of the dead man.

Imoen let out a start and hopped back. "Ack!"

"I did not arrive here by chance," the corpse rasped. "I knew you would seek me out, Dorn. So I sought protection, and preparation. The oni that calls these ruins home knows a great deal on the subject of death-magic, and agreed to teach me if I was willing to serve. It seems I will be bringing him worthy sacrifices too. Far more palatable than the halflings he preys upon. I-"

Stepping close to the undead husk, Ashura brought her boot down hard, shattering teeth and sending up a cloud of dust. When she stepped back it spoke no more.

"Hey!" Imoen complained. "Kryll was telling us her evil plan. Valuable information!"

"If there even _is_ an oni," Ashura pointed out. "Could be she was just taunting us. Or wasting our time while she escapes." She pointed to the side passages with a sword. "We've got a lot of ground to cover." Her swords swept by Imoen, then Skie and Eldoth, and finally Garrick. "Luckily we've got a lot of talented scouts."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest and most heartfelt apologies to Sunnysoul that the Rasaad cameo was so brief.
> 
> In the game you actually find and fight Kryll in a different area, but it was near Firewine Bridge, and the idea to combine her with the dungeon crawl just struck me.


	54. Labyrinth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we underestimate Skie Silvershield

_"While it is possible to stab with the pointed end of a curved sword, I do not recommend it. Far better to play to a weapon's strengths."_ –Davo Abraxus, _A Manual on the Art of Combat_

 

* * *

"See? Easy as pie." With a slice from Imoen's dagger the tripwire went limp and fell away. Her voice was a low, controlled whisper, but it still bounced a bit off the close stone walls.

Skie pressed her lips together in a tight, uncertain line. It didn't look all that easy to her; she never would have spotted the ghostly little filament to begin with. Then again, she had no idea how to bake a pie either.

Crouching low with their backs to either side of the tunnel, the pair of scouts shimmied forward. They had blundered into the first trap without either of them knowing; a similar setup with a string that triggered a crude crossbow. Luckily they had both ducked and skidded back quick enough, and now they were creeping along with a little more caution. 'A bit like sneaking through the Hall of Wonders,' Imoen had remarked. 'Or the maze under the Thieves Guild. Ya remember that, right Skie?'

She did, though this labyrinth seemed a bit different to her. Instead of the crude wooden struts of the smuggler's tunnels the walls here were supported by engaged columns set at regular intervals, and everything was carved from smooth stone. The great slabs that formed the walls met each other in soft, complementary curves, and rounded coving lined the intersection between floor and ceiling. No hard edges anywhere, and everything fit elegantly together; all hints of the elven architects who had built the tunnels and the vaults that they connected. Most of the maze was relatively empty; loose stones and patterns in the dust and debris hinting that there had once been objects stored down here.

Another difference from the smuggler's maze: the thieves of Baldur's Gate had been polite enough to mark their traps with painted symbols. The uniform sameness of these tunnels made it easy to spot the little differences though, now that they were being cautious. Skie even noticed the next one, when they turned a corner and came to a stop.

Unlike the previous passageways, the floor ahead was free of dust, and there were little square stones that seemed out of place. _Could those be pressure plates?_ There was something strange about the walls as well: small round pieces of iron the size of shields lined either side. Skie's imagination went wild with images of the spiked logs, sets of spears, or streams of boiling oil that could come out of those panels if they really were trapped.

Cautiously bending forward, Imoen examined the grooves in the floor and the patterns they formed, Skie watching over her shoulder and holding up her lamp. _Yeah._ The floor-plates were different from the old elven stonework. Newer.

Drawing her dagger, Imoen brought the tip down to one of the grooves and Skie continued to watch with a knotted stomach. Gingerly, the blade slid between the plates, Imoen's hands steady as she wielded it like a scalpel.

A metallic, scraping sound close by cut through the silence.

They both held their breath and froze in place for a moment, then Imoen's dagger slipped out of the groove and she looked over at Skie. _"I didn't do anything…"_ Imoen seemed to mouth. Then their eyes fell upon a nearby iron disk as it rolled away to reveal a tiny hole. They both shrank back, though they were probably out of boiling-oil-range anyway.

A moment passed. Nothing. Silence.

Then something poked out of the hole just a bit: a scaly little head that reminded Skie of a miniature crocodile, its yellow eyes blinking in the light of the lamp. The head cocked to one side, then another, and Skie's heart lurched as the beady little eyes fixed upon her. The creature opened its mouth, and a tiny, narrow tongue rolled as it let out a surprised-sounding " _Screeeee!_ "

Then the critter disappeared back into the darkness.

"Well that explains the traps," Imoen muttered.

Skie gave her a confused look.

"Kobolds," Imoen explained as she shrugged her shortbow off her shoulder. Skie followed her lead and drew her bow as well. "They love to-"

She was cut off by a metallic screech that echoed through the hall, and all at once several of the iron caps slid away, three little reptiles with crocodile-heads slithering halfway out. Tiny bows hung from their claws.

"Oh shit!" Imoen yelped.

Three sizzling pinpricks of light burst into being as the bows creaked. A heartbeat later, as Skie and Imoen were frantically backing away, the bowstrings twanged and the flaming arrows came streaking down the hall. Sparks and cinders exploded close to Skie's head, heat buffeting her cheek and forcing her to duck aside while Imoen's bowstring thumped nearby.

When Skie looked up, blinking back the sparks, it was just in time see Imoen tilt her bow and loose again without hesitation. Ahead in the darkness there was a high-pitched shriek and something dropped from a cubbyhole and hit the stone with a smack. Imoen was already knocking a third arrow when Skie realized that she was just holding her own bow out uselessly.

Hurrying to keep up, she snatched an arrow from her quiver and drew back just like she'd been taught. It was hard to see in the dim light, especially with the fallen lamp rolling on the floor a few paces away. _How_ -

Then suddenly it wasn't hard to see at all. Not by the red glow of two fire-arrows flickering to life as the kobolds took aim. Skie just picked one of those flames for a target, held her breath, let go of the string, and hoped for the best. Imoen seemed to have aimed at the same target, and at least one of their shots must have struck true because there was another shrill shriek of pain. The flaming arrow twisted wildly before clattering to the floor and sending up a harmless cloud of embers.

By then the last burning arrow was flying, and Skie's heart seemed to stop as the flames zipped in close, filling her vision. She twisted her body and yelped, heat grazing her hip and sending the smell of burning cloth up to her nose a moment later, along with a spike of pain. Gripping her cloak in one hand, she tried to smother the flames that must have been smoldering at her upper leg.

By then Imoen had placed another arrow against her bowstring and seemed to be humming something to herself as they backed down the corridor, and Skie rushed to keep up again, knocking and pulling. There was no flaming arrow to aim at yet, but she thought she could make out an amber glow.

_Yeah!_ One the lizard's reflective little eyes! Skie aimed, a white light shimmered around Imoen's head, and then the pair of scouts let fly in unison. Both arrows sank into something this time –Skie was sure of it!- and the kobold slithered back into its little hole with a high-pitched cry.

More tiny yellow eyes began to shimmer in the distance, but then the pair slipped around a corner and out of sight. "Hate those little buggers," Imoen muttered.

Looking about in the dim light, Skie clutched her bow tightly to her chest. "My lamp," she whispered. "I dropped it." _How do adventurers do it?_ Seemed like you have to have at least three hands active at all times. Maybe four. Of course she did have an infravision potion sitting in one of the pouches at her belt, along with a vial of healing and two invisibility potions. If worst came to worst…

" _Luz kreta allavias_." With those whispered words a sparkling ball of magelight appeared in Imoen's palm, and a gesture sent it flitting over towards Skie. "There," Imoen whispered, eyes back on the bend they had retreated around and yet another arrow knocked. "We should-" She hushed at the sound of stone grinding on stone nearby.

To their left, and very, _very_ close.

Whirling around in a crouch, Skie came face-to-snout with another halfling-sized reptile, which seemed to be standing where the wall had been a heartbeat ago. In its little paws was a bow, an arrow knocked and magical flames dancing on its tip. Knocked, drawn, and pointed right at her.

With a panicked yelp Skie swung the only weapon at hand, clubbing with the limb of her bow. Wood clattered and sparks sputtered and flew as the arrow went wild and struck a nearby wall. The bows were tangled together now, and Skie let go, her hand shooting to the hilt of her sword.

Her blade leapt free and plunged through the kobold's scaly chest all in one motion, and the little creature crumpled backwards, momentum taking Skie with it. She stumbled forward a few steps, the magelight reflecting off scales and claws and teeth all around in her periphery. Several more reptiles were close and closing; swishing tails and nattering jaws and twitching little claws in sight.

She spun around and away from the creatures as fast as she could, her back scraping against a nearby wall and a pain registering in her arm as she held up the shuddering body of the kobold that was still stuck on her sword. Its flapping, flailing bulk warded off a few probing pokes from its fellows and their crude little swords. There were three of them, as far as Skie could tell, trying to dart in past her haphazard shield and strike her.

With a _plink_ and a _thunk_ the head of one of the lizards shot back and its beady eyes bulged, one of Imoen's arrows buried in its back. Down to two.

Swiveling, Skie faced the remaining kobolds, kicking the dead lizard off her blade and in their general direction before she swung in with a frantic stab. Steel scraped and darted against iron, and she found her sword chasing after the quick little body as much as parrying, a stony grinding noise joining the sound of clashing arms.

A sharp pain welled up at the back of her thigh, and on reflex she swirled and stabbed towards the source, her sword catching something soft and eliciting a loud shriek behind her. The move left her open to the kobold in front of her (Master Meilum would not approve!) and she barely sidestepped a stab from its sword, bumping into a wall that seemed to have just appeared.

The lizard followed her but she managed to yank her blade up and free in time to parry. Swords locked, and scrabbling and clawing followed. Kicking little legs scratched leather, and claws tried to rake at Skie's face as she lost her balance and felt the impact of cold stone beneath her hip.

She struggled with both hands. With kicking feet. With punches and bent knees and everything she could muster, though her blade did the decisive work in the end, once she got a chance to put a clean stab in. Soon she found herself panting out long and ragged breaths over the convulsing body of the kobold.

_Ack! There could be more!_ But a glance around revealed no beady little yellow eyes. No Imoen either. The moving wall must have slid between them.

Looking down, Skie realized that her fingernails had indeed dug painfully into her palm when she had punched the little monster a few times. That was nothing compared to the sourness in her knuckles as she tried to open her hand and found that she couldn't. _Yowch!_

 

* * *

"You realize that is a pressure plate, correct?" The drow's question was casual and dry, but thankfully it froze Garrick's foot in midair, just before it touched down on the raised surface. He stumbled back, then turned, catching Eldoth's smirk and Viconia's quirked eyebrow.

"I uh…didn't," Garrick admitted. "But thanks." _(I guess.)_ "Traps huh? Yuck."

Viconia crossed her arms at her chest and stepped forward, surveying the passageway. "Crude ones, at the least," she stated in a bored tone. "They stand out from the _darthiir_ architecture like a boil. Kobold-made, I would guess. I was forced to sneak through many warrens of the little _pests_ during my exile."

Garrick frowned down at the floor. Then he started when he felt the drow's fingers trapes across his shoulder. A feather-light touch. Like a spider's. "Worry not," Viconia went on. "I shall not allow any harm to come to our leader's favored pet male."

"Urm. Thanks…" Garrick muttered, looking away. He knew that they _all_ had to try and comfortably work together (if they were to be a proper mercenary band,) but once again he sighed inwardly at the fact that instead of following Imoen and that polite Silvershield girl, he had been saddled with Team Creepy.

"So I guess we should try to hop over the traps?" he asked. As usual Eldoth was no help at all; he was just looking off with a bored expression on his face.

The drow shook her head. "There are spikes hidden in that dust beyond. A leg-trap, I would guess."

"Of course there are," Garrick grumbled. _Why am I here again?_ Quiet footwork he could do, and even a little lockpicking, but traps were a bit beyond him. Still, after a glance around the hall he got an idea. Turning and bending, Garrick picked up a nearby piece of stone that had chipped away from the ancient masonry. "How about we just set all the traps off then?"

"That would work," Viconia mused. "We would of course alert the trap-builders, but I suspect they can already-"

Nearby scraping cut her off as the wall at the end of the tunnel swung open, revealing over half-a-dozen little reptiles, all armed with spears. "Ah," Viconia noted, unsurprised. "And here they are." Her voice shifted to a tongue Garrick had a hard time placing as she stretched her hands out and called upon her goddess.

Specks of darkness crackled at her fingertips in answer, and then a cloud of the billowing stuff burst into being in front of the kobolds. Garrick cringed at the choice of spell _(Why does it always have to be darkness? Doesn't she know we need to see too?)_ but he fired his crossbow anyway, and a pained squeak echoed down the hall in reply to the half-blind shot. One of Viconia's chakrams sailed into the darkness a heartbeat later and brought out another cry. Then the little creatures came spilling forward, some blinking at the sudden change of light but others screeching and charging, their spears leveled.

Instead of trying to load another bolt, Garrick bent down and snatched up the stone that he had dropped. He timed his aim, and once the kobolds closed and their tiny feet had started dancing past the pressure plates and spike-trap he tossed as hard as he could. There was a click when the rock struck one of the plates, then more clicks as four crossbow bolts shot out from nearby holes. Two bolts caught a pair of lizards in the sides of their heads, and they fell with twin screeches.

And then Garrick's rapier was free and the spears were snapping close, forcing him to dodge and dance and parry. He managed to snatch the nearest haft with his free-hand and yank the kobold who was wielding it forward, running it through in the same motion. A kick and a lash from the creature's tail knocked him off-balance though, and a spear-thrust from another kobold forced Garrick to hop awkwardly backwards and into a nearby wall.

There was a sound like a millstone grinding and the wall seemed to slide behind him, slipping away rapidly. Garrick wobbled and stumbled and fell on his ass, and there was a frantic moment of backwards scrambling where he thought the wall was going to swing in and crush him. Then it clicked to a stop and he found himself huddled up against an opposite side of a separate tunnel, the kobold he had impaled laying in front of him and now just twitching.

Straightening up, Garrick hummed a few bars over his open palm, conjuring up a faint blue-white light that floated up above his head. A glance around showed no sign of Viconia or Eldoth, though this passageway looked similar to the one he had just been in. Turning to the wall that had swiveled at his touch, Garrick shouted. "Can anyone hear me?!"

There was no reply. He waited, then shouted one more time. "Can anyone hear me?!" _Hrmph. Would be just like them to instantly abandon me._ He looked up and down the hall, pondering which direction to take.

"Oh, I can hear you," a teasing, sibilant voice echoed through the tunnel. There, rounding a corner, walked the white-haired witch, her hand outstretched and curling into an arcane gesture. Kryll's last remaining thrall shambling along behind her. "So nice of you to happen by. A gift for the oni will-"

She paused and flinched when a bolt from Garrick's crossbow struck the air just in front of her chest, falling away with a flash and a clatter. Then, with hardening eyes, Kryll pointed two curled fingers straight at Garrick, long nails trailing through a gesture that he had seen Xan had use many times.

Garrick's heart thundered in his chest, memories of being lulled and trapped in his own mind bubbling up. Tranzig's spell. The sirine's song. Transfixed and helpless like a little lamb.

At the same time the little brass horn that hung from his belt had been pulled free and was rising to his lips. _I_ AM NOT _getting charmed again! I'm not!_

With a determined glare Garrick puffed in a great breath and blew out the discordant note, waves of air blasting from the horn and rushing towards the necromancer. Her cloak billowed as the sound-waves struck, and her arms curled up to shield her face, the final words of her enchantment lost.

_Good!_ It was a simple little spell, but it had served Garrick well. Mages so rarely shield themselves from sonic attacks.

Crossbow clattering to the floor, Garrick rushed forward, gripping the hilt of his rapier as his legs pumped to close the distance. Steel whistled free before Kryll could recover, piercing both her arcane barrier and her bloodstained robes. The lunge drove the blade cleanly through her chest, and Garrick's momentum carried him in close.

Instead of faltering, Kryll managed to rasp out some words near Garrick's ear. He thought at first it was some northerner curse, but he recognized some Draconic syllables around the same time that something sharp gripped his shoulder and squeezed. The touch delivered a terrible, burning pulse, then his nerves went numb. Trying to wriggle away, Garrick shook and shivered, a chill spreading through his arm as artic air tickled his cheek.

Another twist of his body and he managed to pull back, carrying his rapier and a long trail of blood with him. Stumbling, Garrick dropped his horn and gripped his shoulder, then yelped and pulled his hand away when the ice there burned his palm.

Kryll's hand still glowed a ghostly blue-white, and she took a menacing step forward, but Garrick managed to fend her off with threatening jabs of his sword. She stumbled back and he pressed, then with a scowl Kryll whirled around, robes swishing.

She fled down the corridor, shouting out a few words. Once the spell was complete she became a blur, zipping forward and around the corner with supernatural speed.

The enthralled man turned and awkwardly lurched after his mistress, trying and failing to keep up. He was determined though. Mindless and marching forward.

_The poor man._ Pushing aside the icy ache in his shoulder, Garrick raced down the hall. A few sprinted steps, then he leapt and tackled the thrall.

Together they tumbled to the floor, Garrick's arms wrapped around the man's waist as he pitched and crawled and struggled. "Mistress!" the thrall cried out. "I am trying! I am trying to follow!" He bucked and twisted, rocking Garrick one way and then another. At least the man didn't seem very strong, and he was pretty uncoordinated (perhaps because of the enchantment?) Still, the struggle was relentless.

_No. You are_ not _going to feed that witch!_ Garrick managed to steady himself and raise his rapier high. _This is for your own good!_ He brought the pommel of his blade down hard and it cracked against the man's jaw. There was a little shudder beneath him, then the man went limp and dropped to the floor like a sack. At least for the moment.

Garrick took several deep breaths and clutched at his shoulder once more, wary of the cold this time.

_Thank Lady Luck. And Ashura too._ 'They say it's best to go for the spot right at the hinge of the jaw when you're punching people,' she had once told him. 'Most likely spot to knock someone out. Nerve endings or something.'

 

* * *

"Well there's got to be a lever or something _somewhere!_ " Imoen shouted right against the stonework, her own hands feeling along the wall and pressing any sort of stone that looked irregular. A lot of them did though. Compared to the elegant elven masonry in most of the tunnels this wall was a patchwork of bumpy, uneven rocks, halfway-mortared together. Probably an addition the kobolds had made, along with the cubby-holes with the iron covers. Little hop-lizards had given themselves woodwork to pour out of, and boy where they pouring!

Though at least the poorly-built wall was easy to talk through. Maybe if she was stronger she could have just punched the dern thing down!

"I'm trying," Skie's muffled voice came from the other side. "But I don't see anything!"

The creaks of several bows drew Imoen's attention back down the hall. She narrowed her eyes and _focused,_ taking command of the illusory double of herself that she had placed at the bend in the tunnel. In response the decoy-Imoen did a flip and then bounced off a wall as burning arrows streaked and skittered by harmlessly. The illusion was distracting the kobolds for now, but _boy_ was it a pain to keep the spell up _and_ search for whatever mechanism opened the secret passage.

"Maybe you could try to break through?" Imoen suggested. At the same time she used the hilt of her dagger to hammer at what looked like a weak spot, but she only stirred up a little dust.

"Uhm…" Skie sounded doubtful. "I'll try." There were some stony _tink-tink-tinks_ from her side, but it didn't sound promising.

The decoy-Imoen spun around, stuck her bum out and shook it at the kobolds, then did a somersault while another flurry of arrows clattered by.

"Can't put a dent anywhere," Skie complained. "Don't you have a spell that blows stuff up?"

"Boy do I wish! Next thing on my priority list." Helpful as Xan had been at teaching her new spells, he seemed allergic to the sort of magic that explodes.

_Yikes!_ That seemed like a lot of arrows flying at the decoy. Once it had danced past them, Imoen made the illusion string an arrow for a counterattack, then thought better and had it knock three at once, shooting them all down the hall. Hopefully that'd have 'em ducking for cover! Maybe next Decoy-Imoen could try shooting five arrows at a time. That'd be cool!

"Maybe you're not looking in the right place?" Imoen suggested. "There could be a pulley-rope high up. Or something on the far wall?"

"I've looked! There's nothing here but a long, empty hallway."

"Well-" Imoen fell short and grimaced when three closely-grouped arrows zipped by and went straight through her decoy.

Focusing hard, she managed to keep Fake-Imoen from winking out of existence, but the damage had probably already been done. The kobolds were shouting something now instead of shooting arrows, and their _'Screeeeees!_ ' sounded especially annoyed.

_Woops!_ Imoen started to back away down the corridor as the shouts grew closer. "Uh, sorry Skie. I've gotta run. Just stay put and I'll rescue you soon as I can! Or…run like hell if you see kobolds. Whatever works!" She turned and fled as the small army of lizards started pouring out from around the bend. "Sorry! Sorry!"

One turn, then another and another. She _thought_ this was the right way. Unless the kobolds had moved the walls. And _boy_ did she wish she had an invisibility spell ready right now. Burned that one up too early today.

Another turn 'round a sharp bend, her hand touching the wall to keep her balance, and then Imoen was plunging down a wider hall towards the open chamber where Xan and the warriors had been left waiting.

"Kobolds!" Imoen shouted as she sprinted.

Ashura looked up from a lizard with a twitching tail that she had just pinned with her boot and stabbed. "Well, yeah!" she shouted back. "Tell me about it!"

_Oh._ There were quite a few kobold corpses strewn across the floor, and Dorn seemed to be holding two up, the neck of one clinched between his fingers while the other was impaled on his blade. Vicki and Eldoth were back in the room too, both panting hard.

"Well uh…" Imoen replied as she dove into the chamber. "More kobolds!"

Ashura didn't seem surprised or bothered. She stepped in between Imoen and the tunnel, Shar-Teel slipped up beside her with a fierce scowl on her face. "Of course," Ashura grumbled. "There's always more."

 

* * *

There were a lot of things that Skie Silvershield was not, and she was well aware of this.

Strong, for one. Worldly as well. She was definitely not worldly. And though she had started practicing recently, she knew that she was a terrible cook. The first omelet she had made for Eldoth had browned and blackened on one side almost to the point of being inedible, and the second omelet had fallen apart when she tried to flip it too early. Finding the perfect moment between solidified and burnt egg was still something that eluded her.

But Skie liked to think that she was aware of her strengths as well. She could easily dance the _shifting alliances_ , the _Amnish estampie_ , the _twirling basse_ , _Akadi's grace_ , or the _swan glide,_ and recently she had added the scandalous dances practiced in the secret clubs of the Undercellars to her repertoire. She knew exactly how deeply to bow and what to do with her hands when meeting with a baron, an earl, a duke, a high lord or even a pasha, and how not to offend a Turmishman, a Sembian, a Chessentan, and even an Estagundian (you have to be real careful with your hands around them! No touching, and there seemed to be at least a dozen simple gestures they considered obscene.) She could also read adequately in six languages, speak fluently in four, embroider, knit, weave, and even play piano.

And she could be sneaky. She had had many long lessons in that, starting at age six when she would slip out to play _round-the-dragon_ and _odd-ogre-out_ with the cook's little nephews after her mother had forbidden it. She could make herself small. She could cling to the walls and shadows. She could set her feet down without making the slightest noise. And all else failing, there was the invisibility potion left on her belt, bought at great expense from Sorcerous Sundries.

So sneak she did, creeping along the ancient elven corridors with her back to the wall and her knees bent low. Her left leg felt raw and sore, but thankfully the wound there hadn't bled too much, and she had tied cloth tight over it. She had also been relieved to find that her hand wasn't broken from punching the kobold. Just very, _very_ sore.

Imoen's conjured light had winked out long ago, forcing Skie to drink her infravision potion, but that was probably for the best. You can't really sneak around with a big glowing wisp hanging over your head.

Infravision was handy too, she had to admit. The cool walls and buttressing columns of the complex stood out in clear, sharp blue, and the little bodies of patrolling kobolds were beacons of red-orange against that backdrop. She had already spotted and avoided a few packs of the hopping little lizards, stilling her breath as they passed. And the darkvision even made it clear enough to spot the traps along the walls and floors, now that she knew what to look for. There were some up ahead in fact: ugly, knobby little bits that the kobolds had tacked on over the distinct elven stonework. Easy enough to avoid.

Tiptoeing over a pressure-plate and rounding a sharp bend, Skie once again had to fight the urge to let out a gasp. There, a mere couple of paces ahead, stood a kobold in a padded tunic that looked oddly clean and well-cut. It was using its bow like a crutch as it surveyed the darkness ahead, tail slightly curled.

Skie's sword was out and ahead of her, but the little reptile had its back turned. Hadn't seen her yet. _Best to slink back down the tunnel. I can just find another way. Not like I know-_

The creature suddenly sniffed, and its shiny little head swiveled, one of those yellow snake-eyes fixing right upon Skie. The eye bulged wide and the creature's jaw fell open.

That settled things! All Skie could think to do was lunge.

The end of her blade pierced padding and scales, and her hand stung as claws raked and fought back. More sharp pain sprung in her other hand when she reached out and grabbed the creature by its crocodile-jaws, squeezing hard to keep it from crying out. Spikey bumps at its snout worried against Skie's hand, and the little beast's tail frantically beat against her side as she twisted and tugged with her sword, stabbing again and again.

Skie Silvershield wasn't very strong, but she found that she was at least stronger than a kobold. It was easy enough to hold the creature up and grip its jaws shut as the struggles became death-spasms. Then, panting hard, she threw the reptile to the floor with a scraping sound that made her cringe. She'd been working so hard to avoid noise.

Looking up, Skie glanced around the hall. The little buggers tended to travel in packs. Where there more? Should she try to hide the corpse? But it seemed empty enough. She was just pondering which side-passage to take when a noise echoed down the hall and had her gasping and holding her sword up all over again.

But no. That hadn't been a _'screeeee!'_ It was a human voice. And a familiar one? Skie cocked her head to listen.

"You pushed me!" the voice went on. Gruff, female, and snarling. It was Shar-Teel. "Deny all you wish, but I felt the shove, pig!"

"Oh spare me," Eldoth's voice echoed back, composed as always. _Eldoth! He's here!_ "It's hardly my fault that you are such a clumsy, useless wench."

Still minding her steps, Skie crept down the hall. Easy to find the pair, since they seemed to be shouting. She hoped there wasn't a nest of kobolds nearby that could also hear.

"Watch your mouth Eldoth," Shar-Teel snapped back, "or I'll end your life where you stand." There was a light whisper of steel for emphases, and Skie hurried now, turning a corner and racing towards the voices.

 

* * *

Once again they had a trail of blood to follow, incremental droplets speckling the dusty floor, though it was unclear whose blood it was. All Ashura could hope for was that it wasn't Garrick's. Or if it was that not too much had leaked out. She bristled and stamped and paced the halls each time Imoen stopped and knelt before a trap, which was far too damn often. Those annoying little lizards had really gone wild with this maze.

Perhaps even worse than the traps were the shifting and rotating walls. First they had lost Garrick and Skie to them, and then during the most recent battle Ashura had seen Eldoth stumble into Shar-Teel, sending the two of them sliding through one of the secret passageways. Probably intentional on the kobold's part: dividing the group up so they were easier to hunt would be smart. Most annoying: they had yet to figure out how the creatures operated the walls. After a few trials, they had just resolved to stick close, occasionally shouting for their missing companions.

Sighing while Imoen fiddled with a pressure plate, Ashura turned towards Xan. "And you've got no divinations that could help here?" she asked again.

And once again Xan nodded. "I _could_ prepare and conjure up an arcane eye, but it would require a long period of meditation. Had I known we would be exploring a labyrinth today I would have made that spell a top priority."

"No time to rest," Ashura grumbled, glancing down the passageway. The moment Imoen gave the thumbs up she was _going_ to charge ahead.

"That is often the way of it," Xan noted sadly. There was a pause, then to Ashura's surprise she felt the elf's slender fingers rest upon her bicep. "We will rescue him," he stated firmly. Or in as firm a voice as could come from Xan, which wasn't saying much.

Turning towards him, Ashura raised a brow. "Not going to tell me that he's doomed?"

Xan looked down. "I know that the two of us are not the…best of friends. But I admire your hopefully little lad. He is tougher than he thinks. And we will rescue him."

A chuckle. "Saying that you wouldn't expend the same effort and optimism to rescue my ass?"

"You…have needed far less rescuing in the time I have known you. Still, I would try. For the sake of your friend if nothing else. She loves you dearly, misguided though she may be." There was a hint of a teasing tone in Xan's voice. His attempt at a ribbing?

"Hm. Thanks." She broke off and went through a few more frustrated paces, then Imoen raised her thumb and Ashura stomped forward immediately. Dorn followed just a hairbreadth behind her. Hopefully that was the last damn trap.

Ashura's guts were churning and her blood was boiling as she passed the uneven strains on the floor, faint little droplets and growing fainter. Perhaps the wound had been staunched. In any case, there was only one way to go for the moment. They'd find the source of the blood soon enough.

The others hurried to keep up.

 

* * *

The moment Skie caught sight of Eldoth and Shar-Teel her heart leapt even higher in her throat. Both of them had their weapons drawn and were warily facing each other from opposite sides of a small chamber. "If you wish to engage in one of your silly duels," Eldoth stated flatly, "I would be happy to oblige, and show you just how silly your delusions of superiority truly are. You stupid. Lumbering. Cow."

Shar-Teel's upper lip twitched but her head shifted from side to side, weighing her weapons in her hands. Rage and incredulous suspicion warred on her face. "You seem eager to die, swine. A little too eager? If-"

"No!" Skie shouted, rushing as fast as she could now. "Stop this! Don't hurt each other! Why in the world are you two _fighting_? And here of all places!?"

His cutlass still aloft and on guard, Eldoth gave Skie a brief sidelong look. "Hello, Skie."

Frowning, Skie scrunched up her lips and slowed a little. There was less emotion in the greeting than she had seen from the lizards she'd been fighting, and his glance seemed so cold. _What did I do?_

"Stay out of this, little girl," Shar-Teel snarled, bending forward and glaring; her stance like a coiled spring. "If Eldoth really wants his guts spilled-"

A deep intake of breath and then Skie dashed the rest of the way between them, holding her hands up and interposing with her body. "No!" she screeched, facing Shar-Teel. "No one's guts are getting spilled! You hear me?!" There were tears in the corners of her eyes, and she fought back a hysterical tone. But she had to make them listen! This was madness. "We can all just walk away, alright? No one has to…to…AH!"

Her eyes bulged wide and the tears flicked from her lashes, her head jerking back. A weak little whimper was all that escaped her lips; all that got past the overwhelming pain. The worst pain she had ever felt in her life, hot and stabbing. There was a heavy presence behind her, and another jolt of agony as she was roughly forced to shift on her feet.

Shar-Teel had started to move, drifting to one side with her swords raised, and Eldoth – _yes_ , that was Eldoth right behind her, holding her up- Eldoth had turned her, keeping her body between him and the warrior-woman. _Like a…like a shield. What..? What's happening?_

His hand snaked over her shoulder and he hummed something close to her ear. Heat-ripples flickered from his palm, dancing through the air and striking Shar-Teel. The waves of faint magic spread out and surrounded the woman, covering her body briefly; a shimmer like ice. Then Shar-Teel was frozen in place.

A shove sent Skie stumbling forward, and she felt the steel of Eldoth's blade slide out of her back. Felt the hole rip open further. Her cloak was damp and warm, head light and feet wobbly. _His blade! He had…oh gods!_ "Eldoth…why?" she managed to stammer, tears filling her eyes and her hand pressing to the wound at her back, hot blood welling up around her fingers and soaking her hand in an instant.

His answer came in the form of another stab, and this time she threw her head back and screamed. When he yanked the cutlass free Skie lost all balance and control, crashing to the floor in a heap. She shifted and struggled to right herself, feeling his towering presence over her.

When he finally spoke his voice was just as composed and matter-of-fact as always. "Many reasons, Skie," he stated dispassionately. "Partly because I've been turning the matter over and over in my mind for the past tenday, and I simply could not see a chance of extracting any sort of ransom for you. Your father made that very clear." His voice was so cold. _How could…how could he?_

"But mostly," Eldoth went on, "because I simply could not stand another simpering, whining, high-pitched word from that mouth of yours. Not another vapid observation or endlessly _needy_ demand."

There was emotion rising in his voice now. Fury.

"And every word was a cruel reminder of how I had gambled, and had _lost._ How I had wasted half-a-year planning the grandest heist of my life, and there was nothing to show for it but the company of a whiney, demanding little _bitch._ " He sighed slightly, and his composure returned. "It grew to be entirely too much."

Skie had wobbled up onto her hands and knees, limbs trembling as she fought to stay upright. To crawl along the floor. To move and do…something. _What?_ Her fingers fumbled, scratching stone and dust.

_Gods_ , her head was so light. Like any moment it could just float away. And her limbs were so heavy. They no longer felt like her own. Appendages forged from lead, dragging her down into the darkness.

The glow her potion had given the world seemed to be fading. So dark down here. And cold. And lonely.

_Eldoth_. He had never really cared at all, had he?

"Goodbye, Skie," Eldoth muttered as he walked past her. "Glad to never see you again."

 

* * *

With every bit of will and fury she could muster, Shar-Teel tried to tense her muscles. To strain against the damned spell. To thrash or writhe or _something._ It was no use though.

In truth she just felt disconnected from her body. She couldn't even scowl. Or move her raw, burning eyes. Or even fucking blink! The spell of holding was as absolute as the _swine's_ triumphant grin. He held his bloody cutlass aloft, sneering right into her eyes as he stepped past Skie's still body. They were roughly of a height, and stood face to face now.

Eldoth swung his blade about, flicking drops of blood heedlessly. A few spattered against Shar-Teel's cheek. "It is so tempting," he taunted, "to end you right here and now. One swipe of this sword would do it." He chuckled. "An ignoble end for the _proud_ warrior-woman's final duel. Oh, you and your silly, silly duels." A shake of his head sent his long, immaculately kept hair swishing about. "But I have an even better idea." Another brief little laugh.

"Shar-Teel _Dosan_. I had heard long ago that Commander Angelo Dosan was searching for his runaway daughter, but never dreamed she would be such a woman as _you_. Not until the little redhead told me. Betrothed to old Lord Felonius wasn't it? Until you ran off just before the wedding and caused quite the scandal. The bounty your father is offering is a pittance compared to ten gold trade bars, but it will at least be _something_ to show after this horrid misadventure."

The swine wiped his cutlass carefully before sheathing it, flexing his fingers and showing Shar-Teel pearly white teeth. "Now let's see about opening this secret passage and giving our 'companions' the slip, shall we. Hopefully they left some useful goodies in their saddlebags as well. We've got a long journey to ahead of us." His smirk grew. "And of course you'll cooperate."

Eldoth closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then began to hum. The hum rose from his throat and grew into a wordless intonation as he parted his lips. When his eyes opened they twinkled sharply, and each rising note just seemed to make them brighter and brighter. Soon the air was humming all about him, and despite every effort she made to fight it Shar-Teel felt her rage ebbing away, all the edges of her mind and sight growing soft.

As the world around her became blurry, Shar-Teel heard Eldoth break from the wordless song and chuckle once again, fingers still traipsing through the air as if pulling invisible strings. "Ah yes," he said through the growing haze. "This will be even more pleasing than ending you with a sword-thrust. Shar-Teel, from now on your lot in life shall be to bake cookies and bear children."

Another deep breath, and he began to hum a few more soothing bars, the colors shifting and dancing all around him now. Then he stopped abruptly, his head half-turning in surprise at the sound of glass shattering just behind him.

But he never turned around completely. Never managed to look over his shoulder at the healing potion that had broken upon the stones, or the girl who had dropped it. The four inches of Skie Silvershield's sword that had just burst through the front of Eldoth's chest stopped him before he could.


	55. Accidental Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein our protagonists stumble their way into heroism. Imoen approves

_ "The great mechanical dragon plunged into the sea, but I managed to escape thanks to a featherfall spell. Once I reached the island, tugging the giant crystal along and huffing all the way, the natives informed me that I had apparently saved their entire world. And here I thought I was just retrieving a new decoration for Duke Darkwood's mantle."  _ –Artus Whitesun, _Journal of a Planewalker_

* * *

"The mistress! She will…will…uh…."

The man's eyes and voice lost focus, and for a moment he just stuttered and let out sharp, deep breaths. Then he shook himself and the red droplets that had been trailing down his dusty cheeks fell away, the painted runes on his face now smeared and illegible. Eventually the man's eyes flicked up to Garrick, halfway focusing. "The…what is…what's happening?" He pulled a bit at the rope that had been used to bind his wrists together. "Where am I? Wh- _who_ am I?" His accent was thick and definitely foreign. Sembian was Garrick's best guess.

"I don't know, friend," the bard replied in as soothing a voice as he could manage; the same tone he used to calm the horses. "Sorry. I just know that you were under some sort of dire charm."

Earlier, Garrick had tried every bit of mesmerizing magic he knew in an attempt to break the enchantment, but nothing had worked. Then a more mundane idea had struck him: dabbing a little water from his canteen onto a cloth and rubbing vigorously against the runes that marked the man's forehead. It took a lot of scrubbing, but once the ochre had begun to smear the daze had apparently lifted.

"A charm…" the stranger muttered. "I…yes. There was a woman with white hair, walking by the river. And she had the strangest eyes." He peered off at nothing, then something inside him seemed to click into place and he violently shook his head. "Mercy of the Triad! I remember! The woman. Her…commands. And those skeletal…things. That explosion of blood! The drained man!" He continued to turn his head one way, then the other, as if trying to dislodge the memories. Eventually he stopped, panting. "I came very close to becoming one of them didn't I? A husk or an abomination. Thank you for my rescue, Sir..?"

"Garrick." A chuckle. "Well, not 'Sir Garrick.' Just Garrick." _Wow. I saved a life. Who would have thought?_

"Hagar," the man replied. "My name is Earl Hagar Esclare, of Pros. I'd offer you my hand but…"

With a nod Garrick reached behind Hagar and undid the bindings. Then their hands met, clasped and shook. _Saved a life, and someone important too._ Garrick glanced around. Of course, keeping them both alive would be a different matter.

"So…uhm. We may need to fight our way out of here," Garrick explained, giving the nobleman a look. Perhaps this was the sort who had been castle-trained since he could walk by skilled men-at-arms. A great warrior sworn to defend his family name. A mighty warlord in training!

But Hagar just blanched and made a face. _Hrm._ And the earl was a bit on the lumpy side. Not fat, but definitely not in peak physical condition. Garrick gestured with his head towards the dead kobold, but he just got a blank stare. Eventually the young bard bent down and pulled the crude little dagger off the dead lizard's belt, handing it to Hagar, who took the weapon with an unsteady hand.

"Alrighty then." Garrick tried to put as much cheer in his voice as he could, lifting his crossbow and locked a bolt into place. There was a trail of blood leading down the hall where Kryll had fled. _Probably best to go the opposite direction_.

"Follow me," Garrick stated cheerfully, turning and beginning down the passageway. Now _those_ were some words he'd never dreamed he would tell anyone. _What in the Abyss have I gotten myself into?_

But this was all part of the job. Walking down the corridor as he kept his flatbow straight and his eyes constantly swishing, Garrick tried to focus on that. _Focus on the task at hand_. That's what Ashura would say.

Still, for some reason a very ironic ballad about _'Brave Sir Garrick'_ had started composing itself in his head, unbidden.

* * *

Racing ahead of the others, Ashura plunged past a pair of scuffed-up pilasters and into a long, narrow hall, honeycombed with side passages and bustling with movement. Hissing little lizards were everywhere, bristling with spear and arrows, and at the far end of the passageway there was a great vaulted chamber, lit by ambient sunlight and occupied by a tall, imposing figure.

With a lurch to the side Ashura narrowly avoided a spear-thrust from a kobold that had been lurking behind one of the pillars. It jabbed again, and she managed to counter by gripping the haft of the spear with her right hand, her sword pressed up against the shaft. She yanked and the creature stumbled forward, falling right onto her lefthand blade. A sense that something was moving behind her, and she spun in time to dance away from a second kobold's spear.

Dorn came roaring through the passageway then, hacking the little reptile open as he barreled by. The swing barely slowed him, and he turned and continued to march down the hall. More kobolds lurked in the side-passages, using the pillars there for cover as they readied arrows, and the trail of blood they had been following speckled the main path all the way to the kneeling figure of Kryll. She was propped up on one hand while the other pressed to her ragged robe and wounded chest.

Just beyond the witch stood a creature straight out of a storybook, its silhouette filling the doorway. Its bulk and its features were like that of an ogre; nine feet of broad, hulking muscle, with a bald pate, pointed ears and tusks glinting beneath sneering lips. But unlike the lumbering beasts in uncured hides that Ashura had faced before, this creature carried himself with assurance and control. His sea-blue skin was smooth and unblemished, his clothing well cut and immaculately kept, and atop his head curled two pointed horns.

An oni, kin to giants and far more cunning and powerful than its ogre cousins. Just as Kryll had said. The creature was unarmored, but an oversized falcon rested against its shoulder; a thick, cleaver-like weapon that it casually held in one hand.

In the oni's shadow another human lounged: a gaunt man dressed in rags, with a crazed look in his eyes and bits of bone bound to his wrists, ankles, neck, and the filthy locks of his hair. Another necromancer? A madman? Likely both.

Kryll turned her head slightly, face half-covered by unkempt hair and tight with pain, and through barred teeth she managed to hiss: "See…mighty Kreshok? I bring a fine offering for us to feast upon!"

The oni's voice rumbled, loud and deep. "You presume much, wounded dog. To come into my parlor and say who shall eat and who shall be eaten? I think not." The curved sword rolled off his shoulder and he took a menacing step forward.

"No!" Dorn roared, ignoring the kobolds that were pouring out of the countless passageways, the edge of his sword aimed at Kryll alone. "She is mine! You will _not_ steal my vengeance." As the half-orc charged the air about him seemed to boil, wisps of grey and black curling and congealing at the edges of his armor. Ashura felt an odd downward pressure in the air, and once again she smelled the furnace; burning slag and soot and nostril-scorching heat.

The kobolds felt it too, their footsteps faltering and their weapons sinking, heavy in their hands. But the oni of Firewine Bridge just looked mildly amused, and the man in rags and bones stepped forward and between Dorn and his target, a shard of glass in his hand as he chanted something in a soft voice.

Ashura had slowed to a cautious march behind Dorn, and recognizing one of the man's whispered words she stooped and stepped aside. _I think that's-_

The hair rising on the back of her neck and the crackling burst of light that appeared as the glass shattered confirmed her guess, and she covered her face and turned aside as the lance of electricity streaked down the hall. She knew little of how magic was worked, but enough lightning bolts had been hurled at her for her to recognize the warning signs.

Dorn always acted like nothing could stand before his fury, but the lightning blast certainly seemed to stop him for the moment, turning his body and doubling him over as curls of smoke rose from fresh holes in his armor. He had taken the brunt of the spell while the others had parted and wisely hugged the walls. _What's that term you often hear? 'Meatshield?'_

Behind Ashura it sounded like all Nine Hells were breaking loose. Imoen's bowstring was thumping, Viconia and Xan's voices were chanting, countless kobolds were letting out high-pitched ' _screees_ ,' and some sort of larger-sounding creature was bellowing a war cry.

But she didn't have the luxury of glancing back at the moment. Instead she charged in from Dorn's flank as he knelt and gripped his smoking wounds, eager to plant her swords in the raggedy mage before he got a chance to unleash another spell.

Before she could close the distance another blast of energy streaked down the hall, this one black as ink and sailing over the rag-man's head. When it reached Ashura she felt no force; just an icy chill followed by an ache in her bones. Her shoulders slumped and the armored guards that protected her legs suddenly felt heavy as anvils, slowing her stride.

A rumbling snicker echoed off the ceiling. _The damned oni!_

She took in a long, harsh breath and _pushed_ forward, drawing on every ounce of fury and frustration that she could as she fought the weight of her arms and armor. The kobolds had started to take aim with their bows, uncertainty still in their eyes, but when Ashura straightened and lunged down the hall arrows began to drop to the floor and spears started pointing uselessly at the ceiling. The waves of roiling fear that radiated from her now sent the creatures scurrying in every direction, falling over themselves and each other.

As she passed by the side-tunnels bulkier creatures loomed close: tall, vaguely female and thickly muscled. A pair of lesser ogresses, armed with maces, but they blanched and reeled back just like the kobolds when Ashura stomped by.

Even the mage in rags and bones took several stumbling steps back as she rushed in, his mouth falling open as he struggled to speak. But the great horned ogre just sniffed the air and cocked his head. "We have _two_ servants of Perdition among us? Interesting."

In the span of a breath the oni became a smoky white blur, and then he was solid and towering nearly twice as tall as Ashura and a mere pace away, interposed between her and the ragged mage. The oni's massive sword was raised high as he materialized, and then it rushed down, aiming for her skull.

Ashura's swords crossed and caught the edge of the oni's blade, and with a furious twist she redirected the blow to the side, dancing away from the explosion of stone and mortar where it struck the ground. With an amused grunt the oni turned and yanked his sword from the furrow he had just made, and Ashura had to fling herself to the floor to avoid the sidelong slash that followed, her back striking the stone.

Quick as she could, she rolled and then shoved herself to her feet. The oni was following, and another slash whistled over her head as she ducked. She sprang from there, lashing out at one of his treetrunk-legs, but the oni's body wavered before her and her blade met no resistance; simply passing through the fog.

For a moment the billowing cloud that was shaped roughly like the monster floated before Ashura, and through it she caught a glimpse of the mage in rags and bones, eyeing the field of battle and chanting another spell. Before he or Ashura could do anything further a disheveled shock of white hair rose up behind the rag-man, and glowing hands locked around his throat.

Kryll squeezed with all her strength, and the man's head flew back in pain, the ghostfire on the witch's fingers seeming to seep into his pours, escaping in wisps from the corners of his eyes and mouth. Within an instant his cheeks grew sallow, his skin rough and dry as parchment, and behind him the necromancer seemed to swell with renewed vigor.

As Kryll squeezed the life from her victim, the oni-shaped cloud undulated and zipped to Ashura's left, solidifying before she had fully turned and followed. Already the creature's sword was in motion, swinging as mist and wind became flesh and steel, and all Ashura could do was hop back and try to twist away as the blow sailed in, resounding off the armored guard at her bicep and denting the steel into the padding and flesh beneath.

A flash of pain, and then her left arm went numb, hanging useless at her side as she scurried back from another sweep of the oni's blade. He paused before launching his next attack, his sharp little eyes glaring beyond Ashura, to Kryll and the husk the witch had just drained. An arrow whistled in and bit into the monster's shoulder, but he barely seemed to notice.

"Thief!" the oni bellowed. "I'll have your- _Argh_!" He took a stuttering step forward, wobbling and struggling to stay upright as Dorn's greatsword bit deep into the back of his leg.

"You are the thief!" Dorn shouted right back, hefting his blade and blocking as the oni spun and countered. "I told you she is _mine!_ "

Ashura took a long, deep breath as she glanced from half-orc to oni to witch, her left arm starting to throb a bit. _Three idiots arguing over who gets to devour whose soul._ As far as she was concerned they could all eat each other. The oni was raining blows down on Dorn one-handed, the palm of his offhand smoldering with some sort of dark energy, and Kryll had begun chanting.

_ Two dangerous casters.  _ Ashura forced her left hand to grip her sword tightly, pushing the pain down. Right blade forward, knees bent; she prepared to spring.

Then an idea struck her. "Viconia!" she shouted before she charged.

" _Allur_?" The drow sounded close by. Good.

"It's too loud in here!" She hoped Viconia got the message, but she didn't wait to find out. Focusing her rage and aiming her steel, she rushed for the oni's flank as Dorn stumbled back and the dark flame in the creature's hand grew.

One moment Ashura's righthand sword was cutting through the air before her, whistling, and yelps and hisses from the terrified kobolds were competing with Kryll's droning chant, the oni's growling syllables, and Dorn's grunts of rage and pain. Then in an instant it was all cut off, and Ashura felt like she was drifting through and eerily silent vault.

Viconia had indeed caught on, and acted _fast,_ Shar bless her.

One more vaulted stride forward and Ashura drove her sword deep into the back of the oni's thigh. She had started to twist the blade when the pillar of muscle shifted into wavering mist once again, listless drifting off of her weapon and towards the back of the chamber.

_ Damn! He can do that trick even in silence.  _ The cloud floated beneath the high arch that separated the hall from the larger room beyond, and in silenced Dorn rushed by, ignoring Ashura and the cloud as he took a direct path for Kryll. The witch was backing away, flustered and uselessly mouthing something as the lights on her fluttering fingers winked out.

The larger chamber the oni had floated into was dominated by a great altar of basalt lined with tiny humanoid skulls, and more skulls decorated the walls at regular intervals above strings of bone. When the monster reformed it was beside that altar, and he seemed to falter a bit, propping himself against the slab. _Good._ Ashura's boots silently stamped the stone as she approached the oni at a quick march. _He's hurt worse than I thought._

Another step and her heart lurched. The monster had raised a hand and began to mouth words she could not hear, black fire blooming on his outstretched palm.

Ashura's head pitched forward and she was racing now. _He must have drifted out of the zone of silence!_ A breath later and she broke through as well, and all the screams of kobolds and grinding metal sounds rushed back, along with the oni's deep, droning voice. A hail of three arrows sailed in from the right and struck the creature's arm and side, but he didn't seem to notice, let alone waver. Whatever black energy he was calling up was about to blast Ashura in the face.

_ No matter _ . She'd at least make him pay!

Sword forward, legs pumping, she leaned in and readied to leap, but as the bubbling darkness leapt from the oni's fingers a spark of blazing white flew in and collided with it. There was an ear-splitting pop followed by a long sizzle as countless sparks burst before Ashura's eyes and burned an afterimage into her vision, then she charged right through the cloud and jumped, righthand sword arcing over her head. The blade plunged deep into the monster's torso, then opened a long swath through shirt and belly as Ashura slid down, desperately trying to hold onto the hilt as slick blood washed over her hand and arm.

The sword slipped out of her hand anyway and her feet smacked the floor. A toss and a snatch and she had her second sword in her right hand though, ready for another stab.

The oni was howling now, gripping at his wound but still hefting his falchion, but before he could act there was a flicker just behind his head. Red hair, a violet cloak, a gleaming blade; Imoen clung to the monster's shirt at his shoulder, her other hand driving her dagger into the side of his meaty neck. She dug in and pulled the blade with all her strength, releasing a tide of red and black.

As the monster thrashed and struggled, clawing at his neck, Imoen let go and pushed off, landing atop the altar. The oni's sword dropped and clanged against the stones now, as he took a lurching step forward, both hands at his wounds.

Ashura planted her feet firm and pointed her sword high, readying another stab. _As many as it takes!_ The oni was wobbling just above the blade. _Yeah! Fall! Fall you fucker!_

Another lurch, then the oni lost his balance, limbs loose and feet slipping in his own blood. Ashura stabbed upwards into the creature's chest as he collapsed, and a deafening howl rang out, spittle flying from the oni's mouth.

_ Good! Good! Wait! Oh shit! _

Too late now. Her arm bent back, her own feet slipped out from under her, and the full weight of a nine-foot-tall mass of limp muscle, sinew and bone struck the wind from Ashura's lungs. After that she barely registered the impact when she hit the floor, crushed beneath the creature's bulk, and the back of her head smacked against stone, filling her eyes with flashes of light that competed with the afterimages of Xan's spell.

* * *

Skie awakened to singing; a lilting tenor that seemed to lazily traipse through the air above her. Her first thought was one of Eldoth's serenades, but no. This voice didn't have that resonant depth; that oh-so-self-assured drawl. And much as she would have loved it, Eldoth had never serenaded her in her sleep. Perhaps he would sometime. She'd have to suggest it.

_ But hadn't Eldoth..? _

_ No! No no no. Surely that had just been a dream. _

Groggy and numb, Skie attempted to open her eyes, and found that her lids were heavier than she ever remembered them being. With a deep breath and some struggling she managed to part them a bit, but the world beyond was just a swimming, formless blur.

And… _hrm?_ She was laying on her stomach. Not a position she ever slept in normally. Not to mention that she never slept on a cold stone floor either. _Yowch!_ She was stiff.

With a little more effort she managed to shift onto her side, prying her stinging eyes open enough to get a look at the singer who continued to hum above her. His song trailed off, and though he was just a brown blur, Skie realized that his hand was resting on her back. She blinked a few more times, cringing at the ache in her head and the realization that her tongue was as dry as the Anauroch. It tasted funny too. Like metal. And the back of her throat felt icky.

"Can…" _Gods!_ Her voice was painfully croaky. "Can I have some..?"

"Oh!" the singer exclaimed, his voice chirping and boyish. "Water! Here." He handed her a canteen and she pressed it to her mouth and drank greedily.

Eventually she finished and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. _Yuck!_ There was something crusty at the edge of her mouth. With a few more blinks the singer's face resolved in her swimming vision.

_ Oh! Should have recognized that voice.  _ It was Garrick, and he seemed to be giving her a pensive look. Then, when she sat up a bit more, his eyes widened and he hastened to turn away, blushing.

It took Skie a few long moments of waking up, glancing around, and then looking down to find the source of Garrick's discomfort. She was on top of a hastily laid-out bedroll, still wearing her trousers and boots, but her leather coat, padded vest and undershirt were gone, and the only thing covering her breasts were a few strips of white cloth tied around her chest and back. Bandages, she realized, reaching back and scrunching her face up in pain as she felt a little stab from the wounds between her shoulder blades. Some gentle probing there, then her finger came away lightly smeared with blood.

Two wounds.

From twin stabs. From Eldoth's cutlass.

_ It wasn't a dream. Gods! It wasn't a dream. _

As her eyes cleared it sunk in even more. There, on the other side of the room, she caught a glimpse of familiar brown leathers before turning away and scrunching her eyes up tight. Eldoth's crumpled body. It had all really happened: the betrayal, the cold words, the desperate gulps of the healing potion.

And the furious strike of her sword that had followed.

Skie's mouth fell open wide, then her hand rushed up to cover it. "I can't believe he's dead," she found herself squeaking.

"I can believe it," a deep female voice rumbled, somewhere above and nearby. "It's what happens when you drive a sword clean through a man's heart. You shouldn't be surprised." Skie felt a hand gently pat her shoulder. "Nice stabbing by the way. The swine had it coming."

Skie just shook her head and clenched her mouth and eyes tightly shut. Tears quickly flicked from her lashes, falling to the floor and streaming down her cheeks, hot and salty.

"Fucking Abyss," Shar-Teel grumbled. "You're not actually going to _mourn_ him are you?"

Her only answer was a pained sob, head still shaking. _Mourn._ Of course she was going to mourn! She had so very much to mourn; her whole life had been tossed to the ground and shattered into a million pieces. She wanted to turn and shout that at the stupid, insensitive cow, but all that came out were wracking sobs.

Skie felt a close presence, and something soft enveloped her. It was her cloak, she realized, as she curled up and buried her face against Garrick's stiff shoulder. He softened after a moment, wrapping his arms around her and holding on while the tears ran their course. The fact that each sob worried her wounds and sent jolts of pain through her just made things worse.

After a time the sobs did subside and Skie managed to take in some long, deep breaths, her head still shaking from side to side. _As if shaking your head enough and denying it all will change things._ She let out a mix of a sigh and a sniffle, sitting back and wiping her eyes with the edge of her cloak.

Garrick wriggled away a little too, reaching over and picking up Skie's leather vest and jacket. "We uh…kind of tore your undershirt up getting to the wounds and staunching them," he admitted bashfully. "Sorry about that."

A shrug and her cloak fell away. She reached out and took her leathers. "That's fine," she whispered. "Thanks for healing me."

He gave her a tentative nod, then looked away again. "I'm all out of healing magic now. So uh…don't strain yourself. When we found you the wounds had closed, but you were coughing up blood. Probably a pierced lung. I _think_ my songs mended that, but we definitely should get you to a real cleric as soon as possible."

"Is Viconia..?" She glanced around and her voice trailed off. Shar-Teel loomed nearby, armored and arms crossed, and there was a stranger with a pensive and uncomfortable look on his face siting nearby, dressed in frayed but well-tailored clothes. "Where are the others?"

"We all got separated by those damn shifting walls," Garrick explained, frowning. "When we can we uh…probably ought to get moving. To find them."

Nodding slightly, Skie gave the still body nearby a pained glance. Fresh tears welled up and she turned away, forcing herself to slip her vest on, then her jacket. Garrick was right. Best to get away from here fast.

* * *

Frantically struggling to breathe, Ashura tilted her head, her chest only rising by a fraction beneath the immense weight that held her. At least her mouth and nostrils were free to the air though. She wheezed and gasped, finding a light-headed rhythm after a few moments.

A few moments, a few more stolen breaths, and then the rage seeped out and the pain set in. Her whole body seemed to be one immense, flattened ache, and each wheeze that came rattling in brought more and more spikes of agony. Ribs, her right hip, her battered left arm; the pain seemed worst there. There had to be broken bones. Fractures at the least.

All she saw was a blur through the tears, and each breath remained a struggle, but they came one after the other. Through the haze and the dancing stars she realized that there was shouting nearby. "Shura! Shura!" A croaked gasp was her only response, and then the great bulk of the oni atop her was wobbling; shifting from side to side. Eventually some of the weight tilted off her screaming ribs, and she managed a much deeper gasp.

"Come on!" the voice near her ear shouted, and after a helpful tug Ashura managed to wriggle like a worm out from under the oni, rolling onto her stomach to pant and cough, every twitch still agony.

"Viconia?" Imoen hissed, kneeling there beside Ashura. "A little help?"

Turning her head slightly ( _Good! I can still do that,_ ) Ashura's eyes followed Imoen's. Viconia was nearby, standing behind an orderly little line of kobolds with her warhammer high and gripped in both hands. The three short reptiles seemed to be standing at attention, weapons held loosely and a glazed look in their eyes.

"One moment," the drow hissed right back, then she brought her hammer down unceremoniously, crushing the skull of a kobold and dropping it like a sack before it could even manage a squeak. The other two creatures just stared blankly ahead. "We must be rid of these pests before the enchantment wears off." Taking a step to the side, she hefted her hammer again and brought it down, braining a second kobold. "Then we can concern ourselves with injuries."

Imoen sighed, pouted and waited as Viconia stepped behind the last ensorcelled creature, and all Ashura could do was lay there as the drow finished her grisly chore. In addition to the pain, her limbs felt heavy as lead, a profound exhaustion pressing her down. She guessed it was the effect of the strength-draining spell the oni had thrown at her. She had pushed past it in her fury, but now there was nothing left to push with. _Weak as a damn kitten._

There was one more intense bout of agony when Viconia and Imoen set Ashura's broken left arm, but once the healing prayers had been invoked the pain eased a bit and she managed to sit up, bleary and still feeling sharp pins and dull aches everywhere.

To Ashura's surprise it seemed that Kryll was still alive. Though perhaps that was a charitable word to use.

The necromancer was even more of a mess than before; a pitiful sight really. She was slumped against a far wall, her arms splayed out and fingers bent and twisted in unnatural directions, covered in growing purple spots. They had obviously been shattered and broken so that she couldn't make spellcasting gestures. Dorn knelt in front of her, his rage replaced now by a cold glare, and his hands rested lightly on the hilt of his greatsword, which had been rammed through Kryll's stomach and apparently into the wall behind her.

It was amazing that the necromancer was alive at all, her head listlessly tilting from one side and then to the other. Perhaps she was just subsisting on the lifeforce she had recently stolen.

And Dorn was taking advantage. With the slightest effort he worried his sword a bit, and Kryll's head banged against the wall behind her, a pained breath escaping her lips. "Where?" the half-orc growled.

Behind him Xan was walking forward, his arms crossed and his posture tense. The Greycloak seemed to be trying to look stern, but he was obviously uncomfortable. Ashura could hardly blame him. His interrogation methods had always been so much more elegant than this. A little late for him to step in now though.

Kryll's lips curled, then with a cough she managed to rasp: "Likely he's at the…" Another cough. "At the spot where he asked me to meet him, in the damned letter he sent. It's in the satchel in the right pocket of my cloak. There may be…" A pained laugh. "…a little blood on it though."

"She speaks the truth," Xan noted emotionlessly.

Dorn cocked his head, reaching to pull the cloak back and search. "Simmeon asked you to meet with him?"

"After he learned that Senjak and Dorotea were dead," Kryll rasped. "'We need to gather our strength and prepare for Dorn.' So naturally I… _hrk_ …I ran as fast as I could in the other direction."

"Why?"

"Was hoping you'd find him first. And I had no desire to get between fools who truck with daemons. I prefer to do the devouring. Not to…to have my soul devoured." A weak chuckle, that soon became another cough. "Guess it's too late for that now."

"Indeed," was all Dorn said as he gripped Kryll's shoulder and yanked his sword free. In a blur of blood and steel he stabbed again, piercing her chest and running her through. The back of the witch's head slammed against the wall once more and her mouth opened in silent agony, the air around her and the sword and its wielder shimmering all at once with the same ghostly light.

Once again the heat of The Fourfold Furnaces stuck Ashura's face, and once again ghostly silhouettes danced above Dorn and his sword and its victim.

Wings unfolded, sharp teeth made of shadow stretched in an ever-expanding maw, a woman's form writhed, and flames danced. Then in a wink it was gone, though Dorn seemed to straighten up taller, the wounds from the lightning bolt and the oni leaving nothing but a few dents and holes his armor. _He isn't just killing the people on his list,_ Ashura realized. _He's doing something with their souls. Devouring them? Feeding them to the daemon he serves? That's why he's so obsessed with doing the killing himself, with that sword of his. There's a lot more to this._

She'd have to question him soon. For now there were other concerns though.

Once everyone had recovered a bit and retrieved all their gear, they cautiously searched the chamber and the branching passages beyond, exploring the oni's lair and the kobold nests. Thankfully nothing stirred; if any kobolds had survived they had fled long ago, and a pair of female ogrillons (now dead,) seemed to have been the only other occupants of the lair. After poking through branching rooms that seemed to serve as arcane laboratories, a kitchen, a blanketed and carpeted sleeping chamber, a foul-smelling privy, and a scullery, they eventually doubled back to the great vault with the altar. There was a short flight of steps here, leading up to a sealed stone door.

"Some sort of treasure vault maybe?" Ashura asked as Imoen bent down and examined the stairs for traps. When there was no answer she turned back and her eyes swept down the hall. Doubtful that Garrick was on the other side, regardless of where the door might lead. If he were alive he was probably somewhere in the damn labyrinth. _Ugh. Where are you?_

With a click and an echoing creak the door slid open and Ashura turned towards it. Rather than being greeted by piles of gleaming gold, however, they caught a whiff of tobacco mingled with the scent of a crackling cookfire. _Odd._ Beyond the thick, fortified door stood…overstuffed furniture and wall tapestries?

Frowning, Ashura took the lead and marched over the threshold, sweeping the strangely homely sitting-room with her eyes as she gripped her swords tight, the others fanning out behind her. A flustered-looking halfling man was leaning forward in a chair that looked far too big for him, a curved pipe hanging limp from his fat lips. As the mercenaries approached and Dorn attempted to stand up, bending forward beneath the room's low roof, the pipe dropped to the arm of the chair, and then to the rug, smoking and forgotten.

"You're not…" the halfling stammered. "Not due for another…urm…" Then he summoned up some indignation. "What in the hells are you doing storming into _my_ living room?!"

"Exploring," Ashura growled.

"Exploring the layer of an oni," Viconia added with a smirk. "One who seemed to be in the business of sacrificing halflings. Odd."

"Oh," the little man stammered. "Well, now…you see…" Then with a flutter and surprising agility he slipped up into a standing position on the chair, vaulted over its back, and took off, running up a nearby flight of stairs at full speed.

Viconia chuckled as the little man vanished through a doorway. "An easy enough story to piece together."

Ashura gave her an exhausted shrug and they followed the path the halfling had taken. The little bugger could run wherever he wanted for all she cared. It was a welcome change, finally bumping into something in this dungeon that _wasn't_ trying to kill them.

Though, as she climbed the steps and waked into another cozy room, it occurred to her that 'dungeon' might be the wrong word. A large round door stood ajar nearby, faint sunlight shining through the opening. Passing through the doorway, they found themselves on packed dirt beneath the open sky, in the middle of what looked like a village made of low, dome-shaped huts.

Within moments there were shouts of surprise and excitement all around them. Round little doors flew open. Small, pudgy-faced people poured out, and soon there was a crowd gathering all around, the halflings asking countless questions that the dumbfounded group was too shocked to answer.

And that was how the bedraggled, mismatched little team of mercenaries –half-orc, drow, Greycloak and all- became the Heroes of Gullykin.

* * *

"H-here. I guess," Garrick stammered as he awkwardly held out the ancient collection of tarnished plates that had once been a scalemail coat.

There was a long, awkward pause as the blurry phantoms that stood before him just stared blankly. Or at least that was what they seemed to be doing. Since their entire, semi-transparent, glowing forms were constantly shifting in and out of focus it was hard to tell what they were looking at. When they had first stumbled down this hallway and encountered the ghosts it had been a shock, but rather than attacking, the knights had simply spoken in bits of broken and meandering elven that seemed to tell a story.

Apparently they had made some sort of vow, and one of the knights had betrayed it somehow. He had become an undead creature, forever walking through this section of the Firewine labyrinth, unable to rest and apparently keeping these ghosts from finding peace as well. And these ghosts stood in front of what looked like a particularly important hall; one that Garrick hoped would lead out of here.

Of course they could have just walked through. It wasn't entirely clear if the ghosts even cared, but there were so many stories about the nasty effects that physical contact with spectral undead could have that Garrick and the others had no desire to risk it. So they had taken what Garrick proudly called the 'Heroic Option:' seek out the undead knight, smash it to bits and put the ghosts to rest.

Garrick coughed. " _Ahem._ So you see, this coat belonged to…well I don't know his name but I think he was a knight like you folks. Walking bones, muttering about how ' _All must fall together, as was our vow._ ' Just like you were doing. So! Now he's…fallen. Or um…we made him fall at least. With swords and such. Put him to rest, and this armor's the proof."

Shar-Teel had her palm pressed to her face, head shaking slowly from side to side. He couldn't really blame her. _Nice performance, eh Garrick? Aren't you supposed to be an actor?_ Of course he couldn't think of a worse crowd to perform for than a group of eerily silent elven ghosts. Maybe that clan of extremely rowdy dwarves that one time up by Tentowns…

Taking a deep breath and standing up as straight as he could, Garrick made his best effort at elven. Not a language he had ever mastered, and he also worried that elven may have changed a bit over the millennia that the ghosts had been haunting this passageway. It would be a shame to complete the task meant to put the ghosts to rest, then get attacked by them because he conjugated a verb the wrong way.

"What I mean to say," Garrick stated in elven (or at least he hoped that was what he stated,) "is that we have laid your fellow knight to rest, and here we hold the proof of the deed: his tattered armor."

Misty, angular faces turned, looking one to another, as whispered words were exchanged. "As one we have fallen?"

"So it is…"

"So it was…"

"Together enter…together fall…"

Garrick thought he saw a hint of a smile on the face of the nearest ghost, then with a rush of warmth all six figures unceremoniously vanished.

"Whew," Garrick breathed out, dropping the armor. He was especially glad that they hadn't tried to physically take it. Touching a ghost…some stories said that could prematurely age you, or at least drain some your lifeforce.

"I can't believe that worked," Skie murmured.

"Well, it was easy enough to deduce what the ghosts wanted," Garrick said over his shoulder, a proud smile growing on his face.

"No. What I mean is that I've never heard someone mangle elven so badly. I think you told them something like: _'Then I means to be says we laid on your companion honor, have proving deed her ugly buckler.'_ "

Garrick's mouth fell open and then he smacked his forehead. "You…you speak…why didn't you..?! And I didn't even get the gender pronoun right? Argh!"

"' _Ho_ ' means ' _him_.' Not ' _He_ ,'" Skie pointed out. "It might be confusing because both words sound masculine to Chondathan speakers?"

Garrick shook his head, then went right back to smiling, gingerly stepping over the rusty armor, which is apparently a very similar word to _'buckler'_ in elven. "Well, all's well that ends well!"

Skie gave him a forlorn look and he found himself turning away, heat rising in his cheeks. _Woops. Guess this hasn't ended well for her._

Behind them Shar-Teel snorted as they started down the hall, Hagar following cautiously at the rear. "I guess," the warrior-woman muttered. "Provided this actually ends."

After a few uneventful twists down the tunnel they came upon a heavy stone door on rusted hinges, and with a little effort Garrick and Shar-Teel managed to pry it open. Light flooded the passage as the hinges groaned; the chamber beyond brightly lit by large glass lamps. It also seemed very out of place: a cellar with walls made from wood rather than stone, and lined with countless wooden racks where…bottles rested?

With a puzzled look and a furrowed brow Garrick walked between the rows upon rows, peering close. Was this some sort of apothecary? Where these all potions? And if so, what sort?

"Ha!" Shar-Teel just let out one of her enthusiastic barks. "Now this is a fine way to end a fucking dungeon-crawl!" With a cheerful (if dangerous-looking,) grin, she snatched one of the bottles at random and took her dueling-dagger to the wax that sealed it. A little more work with her blade and she managed to pull the cork out, and without pause she threw the bottle back and downed a long gulp, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Umm…" Garrick stammered.

"What, you moron? Don't you recognize a wine cellar when you see one?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's probably breaking a few D&D rules, but I couldn't help but imagine the oni/ogre mage using his gaseous form power the way that Kain does in the game Legacy of Kain: Defiance: zipping and strafing around as he shifts from mist to solid again and again.
> 
> Also: recently I was listening to the BG1 sound files on YouTube to get a better feel for certain characters and see if I was getting certain lines right, and I was surprised to learn that Skie's name is actually pronounced like 'Ski' (the winter sport,) and not like 'Sky,' the way I had been pronouncing it in my head. Bah. I'm still going to think of her as 'Sky.'


	56. Firewine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we party, halfling-style

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to anyone who may have been following this fic and might find the sudden wall of text intimidating. I figured it was about time to put the rest of the chapters that are already posted on FFnet up here. So have a couple hundred thousand more words! Hope you enjoy.

_ "Looks disgusting, even by halfling standards."  _ –Dwalimar Omen, on being shown a sample of _Luiren Spring Cheese_

* * *

When Ashura finally stepped out into the cool night air and began down the steps of the brewery she was beyond tired. Beyond relieved as well. Her arm was draped over Garrick's shoulder, her side pressed against his, and the weary pair supported each other as they descended one step at a time.

Earlier that evening they had enjoyed a shocking little reunion in the upper level of Gullykin's great communal building, which apparently served as the town hall, a brewery, the roof over an extensive wine and mushroom-growing cellar, and the local temple to the halfling gods all at once. When Ashura had crushed Garrick haplessly to her chest it had been one-handed, her left arm still hanging at her side and painful to move, but now that the priest of Yondalla had tended to her it seemed the arm wouldn't even need to spend a few days in a sling. There was just a little bruising and stiffness there now, competing with lingering aches all over her body from being squished beneath the oni.

Skie was going to remain in the temple overnight, watched over by the halfling healers who had warned that she may still have internal injuries, and the others had left the building long ago to set up for the evening. Gullykin didn't exactly have beds to spare for travelers –especially the kind that were human-sized– but the villagers had offered their stables, an adjacent barn with a large hayloft, and a great deal of food for their 'heroes.' There was also the promise of a feast tomorrow evening.

No doubt Ashura and Garrick's companions were enjoying that food and those beds of hay on the other side of the village by now. All but one of them at least. On a log near the bottom of the steps sat a tall, broad figure, slumped forward with his back to the temple. Ashura looked down incredulously at Dorn Il-Khan, his bone-hilted greatsword planted in the earth like a flag at his feet, the way he always left it. _Surely he wasn't waiting for us?_

The half-orc didn't turn his head as Ashura and Garrick stepped near, his eyes on the dark, open sky and his meaty hands clutching a pitcher of ale. Instead he lifted the pitcher to his lips and drank, leaving them in silence.

"Enjoy your revenge?" Ashura eventually asked.

"Aye," Dorn shot back without hesitation, then took another quick sip before wiping the foam from his lips. "It's the sweetest of things. Don't know if you'd understand."

"I might someday," Ashura said with a shrug. "Maybe if I ever catch up with the man who killed my father."

Dorn didn't ask about that, and another moment stretched on in silence. Eventually he tilted the pitcher back for another long gulp, finishing his drink. Maybe not asking was just his way of being polite. Though, in their little talks along the trail, Ashura had noticed that Dorn was much more the type to talk _at_ you than have any sort of conversation; the sort of man who loved to tell you about himself and had little interest in whatever it was you were going on about. Really, she suspected that under the stoic warrior façade, he was mostly just a preening, self-centered prick.

At least Dorn's low, rumbling voice was pleasant to listen to when he was monologuing. And at the moment there was something she needed to know.

"This Simmeon," Ashura asked, breaking the silence. "He's a blackguard like you, right?'

That got his attention. Dorn's head swiveled and he narrowed his eyes on her, Garrick tensing a bit at her side. When the half-orc spoke his voice was calm and casual, at least. "That is not a title that many are familiar with."

"You pick up all sorts of obscure things when you grow up in one of the world's largest libraries," Ashura boasted with a slight smirk. Truth was Imoen had been the one who had actually pieced things together and brought it up while Ashura was recovering in her cot a few hours ago, but Dorn didn't need to know that.

_ 'Think I've got Mr. Gruffinstuff figured out,' _ Imoen had whispered. _'I think he's a blackguard!'_ When Ashura admitted that she had no clue what _that_ meant, Imoen had started talking about an old book she had read from Narfell, and Garrick had helped fill in some of the details.

"Blackguard," Garrick spoke up in a helpful tone. "A warrior who's made a pact with some sort of evil outsider to be their champion in the mortal realms, in exchange for power." He made a dramatic gesture with his hand, as if a blackguard was about to enter from stage right. "Often depicted in stories as sinister knights in black armor, who kidnap maidens and the like. The circumstances and conditions of the pacts vary a lot of course, and usually they don't actually involve kidnapping maidens. Demons tend to demand lots of wanton destruction. Devils want conquest in their names and absolute obedience. I'm uh…not sure what daemons ask for. Or urm…yugolothos, as they're sometimes called?"

One of Dorn's tusks seemed to rise slightly as he looked over at Garrick. Was he grinning? "Yugoloths want whatever they can get. Spirits of _pure_ self-interest. Sometimes that makes them tricky to deal with, but in other ways they can be quite straightforward. A favor for a favor."

"And you've agreed to perform favors for..?" Ashura asked.

"Ur-Gothoz. A Nycoloth Lord. _'The Claws of Vengeance.'_ A fitting patron, I believed. Especially when I drew the summoning marks in rat's blood on the stone floor of the Luskan cell where I had been left to starve."

"The cell Simmeon put you in," Ashura said with a nod. "And Simmeon himself?"

"He is a blackguard. Yes. A formidable warrior, granted strength by his patron Azothet: _'The Serpent of Perdition.'_ It is the reason we followed the man for years. He was the strongest among my little band."

There was another long pause, and Ashura pondered ending this conversation and dragging Garrick towards the barn and the promisingly soft hayloft. Before she could, Dorn spoke on. "I was a simple warrior then, though my orc-blood gave me strength enough to impress the others. It was beneath a temple buried in ice that I read a scroll detailing the power of Ur-Gothoz, and how to draw his attention. It caught my eye among the treasures we had pilfered, and I entertained the notion of using power such as Simmeon wielded to supplant him as leader. He was not treating me particularly…well at the time."

_ Yeah. Get Dorn talking and he sure goes on. No interest in my dead dad, but he's happy to tell all about his old companions and this former leader. In that deep, brooding voice of his.  _

Dorn's scowl grew as he continued. "He had been...kind when we first met in the streets of Luskan. But something changed somewhere out in the wastes. More and more he simply treated me like a stupid brute, never missing a chance to point to my orc-blood."

_ Sheesh, he almost sounds like a jilted lover talking. _

"And the others followed his example. Still, at the time the price written of in the scroll seemed too steep. I was content enough with ale and gold."

"Until?" Ashura prompted.

"We were enjoying our spoils in a little village called Barrow when a group of hired killers caught up with us, sent by some lord we had offended. They attacked us in the tavern, the two spellcasters among them throwing flames and lightning everywhere, and Kryll replying in kind. You saw how reckless she could be with her spells.

"By the time we finished dealing with the assassins the tavern was a smoldering ruin. The battle had taken us out into the village square, and perhaps a score of the frail little peasants lay dead, either from the fire or from simply getting in the way. I was standing over the broken body of the last assassin when I heard Simmeon speak in a sly, knowing voice just behind me. 'This simply will not do, will it?' he said. 'People will blame us.'

"Then Kryll said: 'No, they'll blame the half-orc berserker. Especially when they find him knee-deep in the slaughter.'" Dorn shook his head. "They had been planning and waiting for a moment like this, it seemed. Our band had developed an unpleasant reputation, and I was to be the scapegoat. I even heard later that Senjak and Dorotea had been spreading rumors that _I_ was the leader. _'Dorn's Nightraiders'_ or some such nonsense." He snorted.

"That is a pretty silly name," Garrick agreed.

"They overwhelmed me, and then left me under one of Kryll's spells, unconscious until I was found by the local authorities and dragged to Luskan.’The half-orc berserker.'" Dorn's hands were clenched tight, as was his jaw, and he had turned to glare off at the bright windows of Gullykin and the fields beyond. "I had never lost control on the battlefield in my life. At Barrow my blade struck none of the scampering little peasants, though I saw Senjak's stray arrows and Simmeon's wide blows fell a few of them. But of course all would blame the _savage_ half-orc."

He let out a bitter little laugh. "And perhaps I became more of the monster they wished to see me as, in that sunless cell in Luskan. I remembered each symbol from the summoning scroll, and with nothing to lose I made my pact. The slaughter on the way out was quite…indiscriminant."

He turned from the darkness and glanced from Ashura to Garrick and back again. Maybe he was expecting her to say something? _'Oh no Dorn! You're not a savage beast! Beneath that gruff exterior I see the wounded soul of a poet!'_

Or perhaps he was challenging them to rebuke him? _'You seemed pretty berserk to me when you went after Kryll.'_ But Ashura didn't indulge or insult him; just gave him a long, even look while Garrick glanced over at her, deferring.

Eventually Dorn reached down to his belt and pulled a small bag free. It clinked as he tossed it, and Ashura caught it on reflex. "I had been waiting for you," Dorn stated. "That's half of what I have, just as promised. The rest is yours once we finish Simmeon."

She gave him a weary half-smile. "Thanks."

"I pay my debts. I'm not a-"

"Savage? Never said you were."

He nodded and turned, making to lift his sword from the dirt.

"So when this is over," Ashura asked, "you're really going to give up the rest of your money? _All_ of it?" Turning back, Dorn shot her a glare, but she cut him off before he could speak. "What I mean is: you're going to go starve and sleep in ditches? After your revenge?"

"Giving it _all_ up for revenge is the entire point," he growled, lifting his sword and turning away. "Sacrifices made, however many it takes. There is no other way to be a true champion of _The Claws of Vengeance_. And in the end, gold and blood all spent and spilled, I shall be free." With that he walked away.

_ Says the man who sold himself to a Nycoloth Lord.  _

Once Dorn was gone Garrick turned and whispered, _very_ softly and conscious of not being overheard. "Seems like he's mostly trying to convince himself."

"Yep."

* * *

"I don't have time for your silly games." Dorn's head turned away as he spoke, eyes focused on the piece of blackened armor in his lap. It was one of his heavily jointed gauntlets, which he was cleaning with an old stained rag.

"Oh?" Shar-Teel asked sarcastically, fists planted on her hips. She was leaning forward so that she loomed over him. "You've got an urgent appointment somewhere, huh? Maybe with your hands and some halfling-made butter in the loft the barn?"

His only reply was a slight grumble as he continued to scrub at the joints of his gauntlet.

But Shar-Teel was not letting up. "Well, if you aren't going to make a date with that butter it seems like you've got plenty of time to me. Your armor's almost spotless, and we still have half the day before the little knee-biters throw their feast for us 'heroes.' Time for some recreation, I say! And like all _real_ , red-blooded warriors, nothing gets my blood pumping like a good duel."

Glowering silence.

"Even the stuffy little squire we marched with for a while liked to show off his skill with a blade," Shar-Teel went on. "He was a limp-dick about it of course. Insisted on 'sparring' instead of getting to it with real steel. The coward. Still a tougher man than you though. Do you even have the balls to wave around a wooden sword?"

Dorn continued to ignore her.

They were seated on a patch of soft grass near the barn where the party had been offered shelter; the low, domed huts of Gullykin all around and the noon sun high overhead. Here the trees were short and stubby, the sky wide and open, and flat-bottomed clouds beyond counting lined the pale blue, white and puffy as cotton.

The halfling village was built on a high plateau overlooking the great 'gully' (really the dry bed of the river that had once run through Firewine,) that gave the place its name. A low stone wall ran between the village and the cliff, more a warning than an obstacle, and the land around was rough and scrubby, most of it a sandy dun-color spotted with gnarly, stubborn trees and the occasional cacti. There were a few patches of green as well, like the meadow where the companions sat, and other nearby spots where they could see halflings grazing their cattle.

Beyond the village there were other high, flat stretches of land that overlooked the gorge, much of the space covered in vineyards where the sapphire-blue grapes the hin favored hung in thick bunches from the vines. They were a week or so from ripening enough for the wine harvest; an event the villagers spoke of eagerly.

"Gods," Ashura grumbled from the other side of the little meadow, a winecup in her hand. "Just fight her already. She's going to do this all day if you don't."

"Yeah," Imoen agreed through a mouthful of soft bread and softer cheese. They were enjoying a little midday picnic, with some food and drink the villagers had gifted them. "Ess-Tee has at least seven-hundred more ways to call you a coward, not to mention nine-hundred unflattering things to compare your manhood to. If you want to spare your virgin ears you really should just club her with that big old sword." She munched thoughtfully, then added: "Or get clubbed. She'll only spend _half_ the day bragging after that."

Shaking his head slightly, Dorn looked up into Shar-Teel's glaring eyes. "You don't duel women, correct?"

She nodded. "It's a rule of mine."

"Well, I don't duel people who are not champions of Azothet. It's a rule of mine. I'm saving my fury for Simmeon and Simmeon alone. Now be gone!"

Shar-Teel huffed slightly and scrunched up her face, refusing to back away. "Bah!" A glance down, then she looked back at him. "Come on. Just to first blood!"

"I've seen how reckless you can be with a blade," Dorn snarled. "I'll not be hobbled or maimed on the eve of _my_ duel. The one and only battle that matters to me. Call me a coward or whatever you wish. I care not." With that he put the cloth away, standing in his threadbare trousers and torn vest to gather his armor. Before he left he gestured towards the other side of the field. "Why not duel one of these men instead?"

Xan and Garrick shared an uncomfortable look.

"Hrmph!" Shar-Teel turned and spat. "They already know that they're complete wimps. What's the point?" As Dorn turned to leave, she shouted after him. "Once this Simmeon bastard is dead you owe me a duel!"

"Fine," Dorn growled in a half-hearted tone as he lumbered off.

* * *

Wine and cheese. Cheese and wine. There seemed to be nothing the hin of Gullykin loved more. Not that Ashura was complaining; she had enjoyed a great deal of wine already, and the halflings seemed to keep refilling her cup when she wasn't looking. She also certainly wasn't going to turn down a free meal. Though, when Gandolar Luckyfoot, the village headman, had told them there would be a feast in their honor tonight she hadn't expected it to consist almost entirely of a dizzying assortment of cheeses.

The thirty-foot long series of feast-tables the halfings had set up near the village square was littered with countless plates and bowls of the stuff, in a wide variety of shapes, sizes, colors and smells (the smell part being something that Skie and Xan had instantly started complaining about.) There were white wheels both spotted and plain, blue wedges with a golden rind, and other wedges of orange, violet, and even green. There were grainy white loafs of cheese that seemed solid as rocks, crumbly and curded stuff piled up in bowls, and pots full of cheese that had been melted into a gooey pudding. Gandolar had proudly explained that every family in the village had a long and unique artisanal tradition when it came to cheesemaking, competing over the years to produce the most unique product from the milk of their cows, goats and sheep.

Of course there was a _small_ selection of food beyond dairy; mostly soft bread that the halflings seemed to treat as cheese-delivery devices. In addition there were some tough, chewy sausages, buttered tubers, spiced squash, shavings of soured cabbage, and steaming rolls of beef and mushrooms wrapped up in fresh cabbage.

Music and dance seemed to be something the villagers loved nearly as much as cheese and wine, and they were carrying on with full abandon. Fiddles sawed, pipes tweeted, Garrick's harp twinkled along, and the drums tapped in time with it all at a brisk pace that matched the bare, fuzzy feet of the skipping and twirling dancers. They were stirring up dust in the village square beneath the light of blazing torches, a larger 'bonfire' glowing to the west.

That roaring fire had once been the home of Jenkal, the halfling who had secretly collaborated with the oni, set ablaze once the tunnel leading into the ruins had been collapsed and the house stripped of anything of value. The sudden blaze had come as a bit of a surprise for the outsiders, especially since they had watched the halflings drag a captured and bound Jenkal inside shortly before the fire started and the village posse came running out. It seemed that, despite their round and friendly faces, the halflings could be quite merciless.

'Waste of real estate," Shar-Teel had remarked dryly as the flames began to crackle.

Gandalor Luckyfoot had shaken his head. 'No one here would want to live in a house on top of the hole that nineteen of us were dragged down into. Best to leave it a grave.'

Above the dusty patch where the dancers stomped a macabre trophy was piked atop a sturdy wooden pole, easily mistaken for a carnival prop if you didn't know where it came from. It was the severed head of the oni that had been terrorizing the village, jaw slack and tongue lolling out; its once-sneering eyes now glassy and dim. The halflings all seemed happy to twirl around it in celebration like it was a Greengrass pole, another reminder that these quick-laughing, cheese-loving folk could be rougher than they looked.

Between filling the winecups of the 'heroes' and shoveling food their way, the halflings also constantly pestered the outsiders to come over and dance, though none had accepted the offer so far. At first the feast had sat too heavy in Ashura's stomach for her to even entertain the notion of dancing, and then Garrick had joined in with the band. He looked to be having a grand time at the moment, apple-cheeked from drink and exertion (mostly drink), as he strummed along and led in the singing, belting out some song about a comely milkmaid outsmarting a marauding pack of goblins. It would be awkward, Ashura figured, towering over the crowd as she twirled through it. Especially without Garrick. Maybe once his song was done, and she'd had a few more cups of wine…

Imoen probably would have been happy to spin and stamp with the halflings (and at least she wasn't _that_ much taller than them to begin with,) but she and Xan had disappeared a little while ago. Skie had quietly excused herself as well, hardly in the mood for celebrating, and Dorn and Viconia hung back, the half-orc awkward and glowering, while the drow just sat in a dark corner where she watched the festivities from beneath her hood.

When they had first learned of Eldoth's betrayal and what came of it, Ashura's initial reaction (along with thinking _'Well, good riddance,'_ ) had been to glance over at Viconia, but if the dark elf had felt any sort of emotion over her one-time-lover dying she hid it well. She had even seemed coldly smug, crossing her arms at her chest and saying: 'Just as I predicted. The male grew too ambitious. A pity.'

_ 'A pity.'  _ That was the extent of drow grief, Ashura supposed.

Besides Garrick, Shar-Teel seemed to be having the most fun. She was singing along with the rest of the chorus, her face as rosy as Garrick's and her arms draped over two jolly halfling men as she swayed from side to side and butchered the lyrics. It was good to see her drunken down to a somewhat benign state, at least for the moment.

Last was Earl Hagar, who still wore a weary look but seemed to be having a pleasant conversation with Gandolar Luckyfoot at the other end of the table. Pleasant and cheerful, though he hardly seemed to be in the mood for dancing.

Shifting in her seat and finishing off her cup, Ashura set it down. _Yeah,_ she'd definitely have to prod Garrick into dancing once he was done with his song. How often were they in a situation where she was comfortable going around without her armor these days? Though even in the heart of the village she wondered if it was a little risky, and she still kept her swords at her hip.

At least one dance, definitely. But first she had to pee.

Pushing off from the nicked wooden table, Ashura's head felt a little floaty, and she wobbled a bit with the first few steps before finding her stride. _That wine must be stronger than I thought._ Or she had lost count of how much she had actually downed, what with the nimble little hands constantly refiling her cup.

Forcing her way along a straight line, Ashura walked in the shadows of the huts and stout trees, searching for a conveniently private spot. Halflings seemed to be milling about everywhere, and soon she found herself walking farther, towards a nearby vineyard.

She missed her infravision a bit, if not the cumbersome helmet that went along with it, but the light of the moon and the distant fires proved enough to see by. A spot between tall rows of staked-up grapevines seemed private enough, and once she had relieved herself and retied her belt she started back, guided by the distant torches. As soon as she stepped out of the vineyard, however, a figure in the darkness caught her eye, beyond the vines and near the edge of the cliff.

Ashura's hand instinctively drifted towards a sword, but she recognized the posture and silhouette before she grasped the pommel. Frowning, she walked over to investigate.

Skie was hugging her cloak tightly about herself to ward off the autumn wind, and her hood was pulled up over her head. As Ashura approached, the girl slowly turned from the open gulf before her, eyes puffy and damp. _Hope she wasn't pondering what I think she was,_ Ashura thought as she neared, though there didn't seem to be any surprise or guilt in the look Skie gave her. Only weary sadness.

Once they were standing side by side Skie's eyes returned to the sharp drop and the cliff-face on the far side beyond. "I just can't believe it," she muttered into the darkness, her voice drained of emotion. Then she tried to laugh, though all that came out was a bitter little huff. "This is 'adventure' huh? Death and betrayal and everything constantly getting turned upside-down?"

"Yep," Ashura agreed. There was silence for a time, then she added: "I know the feeling."

Turning her head slightly, Skie gave her a glare. "Really? You've been stabbed in the back by the man you loved?!"

Ashura met her eyes and glared right back, voice even. "Not exactly, but there's been a lot of stabbing. Not to mention that just this spring me and Ims didn't have such a different life from yours. We were contemplating doing just what you did in fact: running away from our safe, boring home and finding adventure in the big wide world. Then, just before we went and did it, my father took me on an unexpected trip and got _murdered_ right in front of me the very first night." Turning, Ashura glared off into the darkness. "From there we kept getting attacked by assassins. Gods only know why. And then we managed to meet up with two of my father's old friends, who took us in like surrogate parents. Then _they_ got killed within a tenday, stabbed in the back by companions we never should have trusted. Of course I didn't have a choice, because one of them put a bloody _charm_ spell on me.

"And it's been like that ever since. Assassins, and monsters, and battle, and some good friends dead along the way." She fought back tears that were welling up in her eyes; struggled to keep her voice even. "So yeah. Adventure. The constant and terrifying struggle for your life."

After a moment she glanced over at Skie again. The girl looked pained as ever, lips scrunched up and eyes downcast. _Yeah. Nice peptalk there Shura._ She wondered what the author of _The Tome of Leadership and Influence_ would have to say about this.

Reaching over, Ashura carefully placed an arm across Skie's shoulder, and when there was no resistance she held on, squeezing the girl's upper arm. "We can take you back to your father, if you want," Ashura said, the fire drained now from her voice as she looked out at the great black gorge beneath the open sky and stars. "Or you can stay with us. Though now that you know all about 'adventuring' I'd certainly understand if you don't want to." A chuckle. "Or we can find you a job as a barmaid in Beregost. Whatever you want."

Skie leaned against her a little. "Really?"

"Yeah. You've more than earned your place with us. And well…you're my friend." _Damn._ Her eyes were certainly getting cloudy now. _Probably the wine. Or just…everything._

Regardless, tears crept down Ashura's cheeks and her voice caught slightly as she spoke on. "Think on it. It's a big, open world out there." She paused. Her voice was a bit more composed when next she spoke, but the world still blurred. "And full of better people than Eldoth. Dorn's paying us well, not to mention the reward Hagar's promised once we return him to his wife. It's certainly not seven gold tradebars, but your share could be enough to find a new start."

Ashura pursed her lips for a moment, then added: "Hmm. Or we could just buy you some goats right now, and you could make a living here in Gullykin. I bet the halflings would love a new neighbor. And one of their heroes too!"

Skie chuckled slightly. "Skie Obreena Silvershield III, the goatherd. I just can't picture it."

Wiping her face with the heel of her free hand, Ashura turned slightly and tugged at Skie's shoulder. "Well, we'll take care of you. We'll find something. For now, let's go back to the feast. I need some more wine."

Skie bit her lip and turned her head away. "Really don't feel like celebrating right now."

"I understand," Ashura agreed, her voice soft. _But I'm not leaving you on the edge of this cliff._ "Of course no one has a better excuse than you to get completely, blindingly drunk."

"That is a good point," Skie muttered through a forced smile.

"Come on then." And with that Ashura guided her friend around. Still holding Skie's shoulder, she began to walk back towards the music and the waving torches.

Once she had safely deposited Skie at the banquet table and taken up another cup, Ashura promptly sought Garrick out. With a tap and a tug on his shoulder she managed to drag him out among the spinning couples, where they danced with the halflings on the well-packed dirt. Beyond that the rest of the night became a blur of wine, cheese, and more wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As some may have noticed, Dorn's backstory and quest has been changed quite a bit here. For instance: in the game Dorn and Friends just sort of mindlessly slaughtered everyone in Barrow, because *evil!* Then Dorn gets the full blame. This seemed really silly and not in tune with what I see as neutral evil characters. Callous disregard for civilian casualties and opportunistic backstabbing felt much more appropriate, and I like the idea of Dorn being bitter that everyone *assumes* he's a rampaging maniac, while he’s not *actually* one. Just a narsassitic asshole, instead.
> 
> Also, in the game Simmeon only becomes a blackguard at the last minute to…have a better chance against Dorn or something? It's kind of silly. Giving the two of them a longstanding rivalry tied to the blackguard class felt a lot more natural. And the Enhanced Edition is a little unclear about what kind of fiends Ur-Gothoz and Azothet are (I think he's supposed to be a demon and she's supposed to be a devil? Maybe?) But I've always had a soft spot for yugoloths/daemons, the underused and often neglected incarnations of Neutral Evil, so that's what I decided to make them.


	57. The Fires of Perdition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein daemons fight through mortal pawns

_ "Mephistopheles: Centuries of planning you say? How quaint. And with that you truly thought to outplay one who has been planning and plotting since before the ancestors of the mortal you once were came down from their trees?" _

-Raelis Shae, _The Pit Fiend's Wager_ , Act V Scene III

* * *

Amber and orange carpeted the forest floor, freshly fallen leaves mixing with others which were starting to crinkle at the edges. Leaffall still had a ways to go; the branches high above the squatting companions were still heavy with color, and the air today was warm with the last breaths of summer. The group was waiting and resting on something that barely constituted a forest trail, thick with brambles and spider webs, about a league's travel south and west of the estate on the outskirts of Beregost known as the High Hedge.

Xan had assumed that dry, fallen leaves would be a scout's bane, but Imoen made no sound when she appeared, head popping up behind a fallen log before she silently vaulted over. She landed right in front of him, a proud grin on her face, and he nodded in greeting, fighting down a smile of his own. _Best not to encourage her wild and unnecessary gymnastics._

A moment later Skie appeared, low to the ground and cautiously making her way around the log, her eyes sweeping ahead for obstacles with each step. Just like her partner she managed not to crunch any leaves as she went.

Without waiting for Skie to catch up, Imoen spoke in a low voice. "Seems like a little camp alright. Just one tent and a firepit, in a big open field. Pretty sure there's just three people too. I combed the woods, all invisible, and there weren't any sentries."

"The people?" Dorn asked, impatience in his voice.

"Well, there's this big blonde guy sitting around, dressed in heavy armor. It's painted black and covered in snaky decorations. Impressive looking, if yer into that sort of thing."

"Serpent motifs," Dorn growled. "That would be Simmeon."

"The other two are a man and a woman. Both middle aged. I think they're a couple. The woman's dressed in a fancy red outfit, and the man's wearing chainmail. He's got that put-together look you see in a lot of warpriests, but I couldn't spot a holy symbol. More old friends of yours?"

Dorn shrugged. "Hirelings or some such. Simmeon is the last of my 'old friends.'" He got to his feet and shouldered his greatsword. "This should be simple."

"This," Xan protested, eyes sharp, "is glaringly, obviously a trap."

"Obviously," Dorn retorted, facing the trail and ready to be off. "But the trap is designed for me. He's not expecting a competent warparty. That was the point of hiring you. And we sent scouts. What more do you want?" With that he started down the trail, Ashura and Shar-Teel both shrugging slightly before following in his wake, blades out and bloody-minded as always.

_ Not to be following an idiot like you _ was what Xan wished to say. Barring that, he wanted to at least tell them that they needed to hold back. That something felt off. But he knew they would pay no attention to such a suggested. With one hand at the hilt of his moonblade and the other close to the pouches where he kept his spell-components, the Greycloak stood and trudged behind the bloodthirsty band of brigands that he now seemed to be part of. _However did I-_

There was a light rustle of violet right beside him, and he turned slightly. Imoen was right there, appearing out of nowhere as usual and leaning in close. "You look 'specially sour," she whispered. "Don't ask me how I can tell the ''specially' part, but I totally can."

Xan shot a pensive look ahead, eyes on Dorn's back as the blackguard thundered along. "This is just a…strange path for me to follow." He twisted his lips, trying to find the proper words.

"I suppose it is," she agreed. A brief silence. "You did help Kivan along the same sort of path tho. Said that you felt a kinship with him too."

"Well of course. He had…"

"And think about it. What if Mulahey had gotten away? Before we freed you."

Xan just gave her a very confused look, but Imoen had her eyes ahead, focused on the broad half-orc who was leading them. "I mean, it sounds weird, but I can totally picture you acting like him. Without the deep bass voice and the oafishness of course. But you can be cold, methodical and ruthless with that sword o' yours. Given the right circumstances I bet you'd totally do the 'cutting a bloody path of vengeance' thing."

"I…" Once again Xan looked ahead, and his mouth fell open, then promptly shut. The half-orc was armored now, but once or twice along the road Dorn had taken off his mail and vest. There were a lot of scars on that pale, bulky frame, mostly little nicks born from battle, but across Dorn's back Xan had noted a close thicket of raised flesh. Obviously lash-marks, and thinking of them made Xan's own scars itch.

And the snatches of Dorn's story he had picked up: betrayal followed by hopeless days or weeks in darkness, starving and awaiting some form of execution in a Luskan arena. Xan had certainly never consorted with daemons, but in that forsaken pit in the Nashkel mines…if some powerful being had made an offer between Mulahey's 'sessions' he doubted he would have declined.

"Sorry," Imoen whispered, concern in her voice as she watched his face. She placed a hand on his shoulder. "I didn't mean to make you remember…"

"It is alright," Xan replied. "You may have a point." _He's not too different from Kivan really. Though far less charming._ "I suppose it is a path I can understand, and I should not begrudge another's desire for revenge." His lips tightened a moment, frowning. "Still, I do not think I shall ever grow used to this business of bullheadedly charging into battle."

Imoen let out a grim little giggle. "Yup. Me neither. Spare a girl an invis? I'm tapped out."

He obliged: a touch and some words and she faded from sight.

Still, something was nagging him. More so than usual. "You are _certain_ you spotted nothing unusual about their camp? No…object that people could be hidden in?"

"Nope," the voice of the invisible girl replied.

Up ahead the three bullheaded warriors were jogging now, and the forest seemed to be growing lighter. They were nearing the clearing.

"Nothing like that," Skie added, huffing along at Xan's other side with her bow unslung and ready.

"No strange configuration to their firepit?" he pressed.

"Nope," Imoen repeated. "Though um…not sure what that would even look like."

"There were those weird scratches," Skie admitted.

"Huh? I didn't see any scratches."

"In the dirt," Skie clarified. "Mostly covered in leaves, but the campground looked…I dunno, scratched up with all these little lines?"

_ Oh sweet Selderine.  _ "Writing?" Xan suggested.

"Yeah, I guess it could have been."

_ I  _ knew _there was something._ He let out a sigh. _Too late now._ The three 'bulls' were charging, momentum carrying them out into the open sunlight ahead.

Towards their doom.

At least having a _hint_ of a warning was better than none. Xan had quite a few bits of dispelling magic ready, and he suspected they would be the first spells from his lips when sparks started to fly.

* * *

Bursting from the brush and into the clearing, the three warriors instantly fanned out with Dorn in the vanguard, finding space for their blades. Space for blades and space to close in like the jaws of a trap, Ashura shifting far to Dorn's left and Shar-Teel at his right.

From his perch on a small log the blonde man in black plate just glanced up, not seeming the last bit surprised. He stood with no hurry, an ornate hand-and-a-half sword clinking against his armored shoulder; a horned full-helm in his other hand. "About time," was the first thing Simmeon said, his tone soft and mild. The man and woman Imoen had mentioned had stepped forward and taken positions nearby, their hands empty and facing the ground, obviously readying spells.

Ashura scowled and tensed. Xan had been right, and it had been obvious. This was a trap. She was ready to charge, but Dorn seemed inclined to talk.

"I thought you would be grateful," the half-orc growled, "that I took my time with the others and allowed you to prepare whatever pointless surprise you have waiting." Xan had stepped out from under the trees now, and he seemed to be solemnly moving in to take a position a bit behind the warriors, glowing moonblade in hand. The rest of the party was keeping back to the cover of the trees.

Simmeon chuckled and with a flick of his wrist the helm settled upon his head, obscuring all but his eyes. "It's actually been quite the boring wait. I've been preparing for this moment long before the slaughter at Barrow, you see."

"You…what?!" Dorn cocked his head slightly, confused. "What do you mean? You left me for dead in Luskan!"

Simmeon snorted. "Hardly." His sword twirled, his other hand resting on the square wooden shield that stood by his feet. "Who do you think insured that you would find that summoning scroll? You had long been jealous of my powers, and my mistress and I had hoped you would simply jump at the opportunity to make the pact and try to supplant me. Of course you ended up needing further motivation, but what's an extra year or two when it comes to the plans of daemons?"

"This makes no sense!" Dorn snarled. "You _wanted_ me to challenge you? And for me to…to make the pact?"

_ Makes perfect sense, _ Ashura figured. She had read more than enough stories about mortals dealing with devils, demons and yugoloths to know where this was going. No matter how clever you think you are, the immortals are always five steps ahead.

It would be best to charge the woman in red first. She looked like the spellcasting type. The hirelings were hanging back a good thirty paces at least. _Shame I don't have a haste potion handy._ Instead she carried a _strength_ draught at her belt, along with a potion that could toughen her skin like armor. And a healing potion of course.

"Ur-Gothoz was searching for a new champion," Simmeon continued. "And my mistress thought it best to determine who that champion would be. Better for us to guide him to his doom, just as we did with-"

A sharp twang and a rainbow shimmer nearby interrupted his boast, Imoen's arrow streaking pointblank into the face of the woman in red. There was a flash of violet and the shot simply rebounded, clattering impotently to the ground.

_ One of those damn arrow-deflecting spells _ , Ashura realized as she dashed past Simmeon, charging the spellcaster herself.

"No-no-no," Simmeon's voice slithered, chiding. He stabbed his sword into the earth as the small army of well-armed mercenaries closed in around him, and the woman in red and her companion moved with him, palms open above the ground. "You WILL fight fair!"

In the space of a breath smoldering cracks expanded out from the spot where the blade had struck the earth; burning fissures that intertwined with symbols scrawled in the dirt. The leaves that had been hiding the markings blew back, most smoldering or bursting into flame, and behind the black knight the woman in red and the warpriest bent down to swiftly plant their hands upon the ground. More eruptions bloomed from the spots they touched, glowing letters snaking out and twisting together in circling and expanding patterns.

Tornadoes of burning leaves spun across the clearing now, hot winds radiating from the growing summoning circles and rushing out to the edge of the clearing, and with a burst of hot white light a wave of force and flame followed. Ashura shielded her face and turned her head from the explosion, and in the corner of her eye she saw the wave lift Shar-Teel and send her flying out of view. Close by she heard Xan let out a pained cry as well, and when she glanced around she saw the elf's fluttering cloak disappear beyond a great barrier of flame where the tree line had been a moment ago.

That wave of force and fire had struck her. Rolled through her. Yet oddly she felt…nothing. No heat, no wind, no pressure. She had only witnessed the effects.

Lowering her arms from her face, Ashura spared the clearing a glance. The earth glowed with burning lines of power, but standing upon them were her, Dorn and Imoen, seemingly unaffected and all looking about in confusion. Beyond them great curtains of flame had risen up in a broad circle. The woman and the warpriest had disappeared, likely somewhere behind the fiery wall.

* * *

With an arc and a painful jolt Xan struck the earth. For a moment he was senseless, then he gasped and started frantically patting at his cloak and robes. _The fire!_ He had felt the rush of heat; half-tasted the brimstone.

But no, he wasn't on fire. The wave had simply flung him into the bushes.

Sitting up, he shook his head with frustration. The dispel had been on his lips. Worthless now. Though, looking at the inferno before him, he found himself doubting that his magic could have overcome _that._ In fact, he seemed to be looking at a powerful and well-prepared conjuration spell, and that was a school of magic he knew next to nothing about.

From somewhere above him a calloused hand shot down and gripped his shoulder. "Get up," Shar-Teel hissed as she yanked, and he stumbled to his feet. "Enough lollygagging. We need to get inside there."

"I don't think my magic can-"

"Bah," Shar-Teel snarled. "You're the most useless wizard I know. Can't blow people up. Can't break down magic walls. What _are_ you good for anyway?"

Xan sighed and rolled up his sleeves. "A divination spell at least. I can-"

There was a rustle nearby as Skie's brown hair and frowning face poked out between some shrubs. "That man and woman who summoned up all that fire are outside the clearing," she announce. "I saw them appear on the other side, while I was circling."

Mouth open, Xan nodded slightly. "Oh. Nice…scouting."

"And we don't even need your spell!" Shar-Teel noted with a grin. "Ha!"

Shaking his head, Xan searched the brambles, spotting the blue steel of his moonblade a few feet away. He bent down, hoisted his weapon, and began to walk around the roaring flames. "Perhaps I can at _least_ be of some use with this," he stated as he gave his glowing sword a few testing swings. "Come. We have a pair of summoners to kill."

"You're so sexy when you talk like that" Shar-Teel replied with a ferial grin. "Should do it more often."

* * *

"This camp sits on a leyline," Simmeon was shouting over the roaring winds and flames, "attuned to powerful summoning…" His voice faltered and trailed off, and now even _he_ seemed confused, eyes darting about through the narrow gap in his full helm. "Why are you two still here?!" he demanded, eyes shifting from Imoen to Ashura, then back again. "The flames should have banished all who have not been touched…by…"

The whole world seemed to be fire now, great swaying walls that reached to the heavens and hid the sky in orange and red. In the curtain of flame behind the spot where Dorn stood trails of smoke and shadow curled and danced, congealing into a vague form: something shaggy and bestial, with many arms and great draconic wings.

"The Fires of Perdition?" a deep voice boomed from the shadows and flames. "Seems my champion has brought allies more powerful than you anticipated, Azothet."

The sound of that sent a chill down Ashura's spine. _I'm a 'powerful ally' now?_ Somehow that was not a comforting thought.

Within the great wall of flame that billowed behind Simmeon streams of smoke slithered and coiled. "You never could fight fair, Ur-Gothoz," a second voice countered, slippery, melodic and vaguely feminine.

"You are one to talk, _Serpent._ You've simply been outplayed!" the flames and shadows bellowed.

"My servants still control the summoning circles, fool," the second voice hissed back. "I took great pains to insure a _fair_ fight between our champions, and we shall have it!"

Ashura had begun to back away when the voices had started their little feud, glancing at Imoen as she did. She felt no heat as she neared the wall of flame. But did she dare touch it?

When she reached back and used the pommel of her righthand sword to test the fires Ashura tapped against something solid. Still no heat, but there was a force there.

_ Bah!  _ She and Dorn and Imoen hadn't been 'banished' the way the others had, but they seemed to be trapped in here. Trapped in some sort of daemonic power struggle. It reminded Ashura of all the stories she had read about mortals dealing with fiends: you can stumble out alive, and perhaps even ahead, but no matter what you're still a hapless pawn. How can you not be, dealing with beings that live forever and play a _very_ long game?

The circles in the earth where the woman and man had summoned up the vortexes of burning wind still glowed a blazing red, and with a sudden flare they erupted again, spitting up embers and what looked like tiny globs of magma. With a gurgle and a groan something else emerged from the growing rifts of fire where the arcane lettering had been: long segmented arms that clutched the ground at the edges of the circles, two apiece. With another gust of sparks and flame the owners of those arms lifted themselves from the ground, chitinous legs bending as their feet scraped against the ash and dirt. Swiftly they stood, hunched but still taller than a man; twin creatures that vaguely resembled humanoid insects with four arms each, their carapaces jagged and chipped and black as basalt. Their wide maws bristled with dagger-sharp teeth as well as clacking mandibles, and their great round eyes glowed a searing orange, as if furnaces burned within.

"Three on three now," the serpentine voice announced from the dancing flames, obviously pleased with herself. The summoned creatures were easy enough for Ashura to recognize from bestiaries and books on the lower planes. Mezzoloths, the foot-soldiers of the daemon armies.

Ashura took in a long, deep breath, then turned her head up towards the burning sky and shouted. "Why the _fuck_ do you think we're going to fight for any of you?!"

Laughter echoed, flames danced, and the insectoid daemons advanced, four claws each and clacking all at once. Just behind the creatures Simmeon had pointed his shield forward and tilted his sword just above the rim, his limber, armored legs shifting from foot to foot as he took a dueling stance.

"Stand and die along with the champion of Ur-Gothoz if you wish, godchild," the serpent's voice proclaimed. "It makes no matter to me."

"This was not my plan," Dorn snarled, with a pointed glance at Ashura. "But I shall not back down!"

_ And I've got no bloody choice.  _ Her back to the wall of solid flame, Ashura planted her feet firm and pointed with her leading blade. _Well, I agreed to this job didn't I?_ She'd just have to be more picky next time.

The mezzoloths were closing in now, and Imoen seemed to be chanting something. A shiver shook Ashura as the aura of terror that seemed to roll off the creatures' spiny carapaces pushed at her. It was the first time she had felt daemon-fear from the other side.

Before the wave could overwhelm her she snarled and pushed right back, calling on the furnace within her to match the oncoming daemon's. Suddenly fearless, she launched herself forward, swords cutting through the air.

Pincer claws whistled over her as she ducked and slid in and slashed, her first blow bouncing harmlessly off thick chitin plate. She passed by the creature and spun, her next stab slipping between joints of carapace and drawing a pained screech from the daemon, along with a trickle of black ichor.

More clicks as the creature turned and Ashura leapt away, leaning back even farther as a puff of orange gas billowed from the mezzoloth's nostrils. Not far enough though. Her vision swam and her eyes stung, chest spasming with an involuntary cough. Another cough followed, slowing her, and then a claw was sweeping in. It struck her shoulder with the force of a mace.

The blurry, burning world cartwheeled around her. She was rolling on the ground now, desperately clutching her swords.

Rolling and righting herself; she planted her feet, lurched up and then back. Claws whistled by but they were a foot behind her, the creature too slow. Her chest burned and her head throbbed from the effects of the gas, so much phlegm welling up in her throat and nostrils that she had to fight not to gag.

The daemon that had advanced on Imoen was belching out an orange cloud as well, its head tilted straight up. It looked like Imoen was out of reach though, hovering high above the creature and supported by some sort of levitation spell as she rained arrows down upon it. _Smart_. Imoen couldn't retreat in the closed arena that had been conjured around them, but she could still go _up._

Ashura caught all that in a glance as she hopped back and to the side, then claws and burning eyes and glistening teeth were close again; clicking and gnashing. A blur of black obsidian and she felt a sting and a smear of hot blood across her cheek. A twist and a turn and another burst of black as a chitin plate was cut away. Claws locked at her shoulders and pulled with terrifying strength.

There was wrenching pain as pincers dug through chainmail, clawing and trying to pull her apart all at once. She twisted, struggled, and desperately stabbed. One sword slipped from her fingers as the creature held on, imbedded deep between the mezzoloth's plates, hilt bobbing, and then Ashura balled her empty hand into a fist, blue-white light flaring. With a flick of her wrist she flung the ghostfire at the daemon, but the light simply burst into a thousand sparks and winked out, repelled by caprice. The creature reeled back slightly and then leaned in, hot breath in Ashura's face, mandibles expanding and wisps of orange smoke coasting out between dagger-teeth.

Then Ashura's foot hooked behind the daemon's leg and she managed to get some leverage, pitching them both towards the ground. Fire flickered all around them as they rolled along the crisp leaves, claws encircling and trying to cling; Ashura's free hand pushing and grabbing as she slammed the creature against the earth. Her other hand flew up and came down in an overhand stab. Then another and another and another.

Chitin plates had been biting into her palm. Then suddenly they were soft. Insubstantial. Then dust. The remains of the daemon crumbled between her fingers and then she found herself alone, on her hands and knees, coughing and heaving. With a little focus she managed to bring out some more of the strange, unearthly power that she wielded, using it to draw the poison out of her lungs, her hand glowing as it sent the orange cloud billowing away.

Through her blurred vision she managed to look over towards Imoen and force herself to her feet. With one hand Ashura clutched her remaining sword, and with the other she reached for her belt and touched the _strength_ potion that rested there.

But Imoen was still floating and whole, now hovering above a cloud of smoking black dust that was peppered with arrows. The remains of the second mezzoloth. Clutching her bow and keeping an arrow knocked, Imoen slowly drifted down and landed softly. She turned and gave her friend a tired smile.

Ashura smiled right back. Then she looked ahead.

That left Dorn and Simmeon, circling in the center of the burnt clearing, their swords hacking and clanging again and again. Ashura looked down at the ground and coughed a few more times, waiting for her breath to get good and steady. _No particular hurry._ Gathering both of her swords, she stood up straight and glanced over at Imoen, who met her eyes and shrugged.

Ashura took a few steps forward, crinkling her lips and glaring at the back of Dorn's head as he ducked under a high slash from Simmoen and braced his greatsword and his body instead of countering. The move payed off, since Simmeon whirled and attacked again almost instantly, his blade bouncing off of Dorn's.

It was tempting to just walk up and stab Dorn in the back, then follow through by ganging up on his opponent. _There!_ she'd shout up at the tiny gods that held them captive in this circle of flame. _No more champions. You both lose!_

Still, in his own pigheaded way Dorn had probably been 'true' to them. So instead Ashura took a deep breath and plopped down on the leaves, sitting a safe distance away from where the two blackguards dueled. She placed one sword in her lap and the other at her side, then gestured for Imoen to join her. With a puzzled frown and another shrug her friend sat down at her side.

From the curtain of flame behind her Ashura heard a frustrated, animal roar. Without turning she raised a hand, curled her fingers together, and made an obscene gesture right back at the daemon lord. "Not our fight," she muttered to Imoen in a tired voice. "Let the 'Champions of Perdition' sort it out."

Dorn let out a grim little laugh, which turned into a grunt as he parried Simmeon's sword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An enormousness amount of heavy metal music was listened to while Dorn's chapters were written, namely the album Harbour of Devils by the band What the Blood Revealed, and the House Harkonnen theme from the Dune computer game (I'm a big fan of instrumental music.) That sort of became Dorn's theme for me.
> 
> I also listened to a lot of the same sort of music writing Sarevok's scenes. At heart, I think, Dorn and Sarevok are both big, doofusy metalheads.


	58. A Walking Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein wild magic meets the Bhaalspawn curse

_ "As far as I'm concerned the chance of randomly turning oneself into a turnip is no worthwhile tradeoff for a little boost to one's spellpower,"  _ –Zulkir Druxus Ryhm of Thay, discussing the possible benefits of wild magic

* * *

Wheezing out long, ragged breaths, Dorn planted his sword in the dirt and leaned hard against it. It was all he could do to keep from crumbling to the ground, his armor rent and dented; face bloody and beginning to swell. A few more raw gasps, and then he lost his battle with gravity, knees buckling and gauntlets desperately gripping the crossguard of his sword.

Little more than a pace before him lay the Champion of Azothet, flat on his back with his armored legs twitching and his breastplate caved in. He was struggling to breathe and having an even harder time of it than Dorn.

It had not been an elegant duel. But then again, where they ever?

Simmeon's plated and enameled armor had seemed impenetrable, and Dorn's strength was inhuman, his massive sword weightless in his hands. Dorn's pace had been relentless, but Simmion had matched it blow for blow, never missing an opportunity to counter. They had both called up clouds of darkness, emanated waves of despair, and had bolstered their blows with the power of the Nether Planes, but to no visible effect, their abilities perhaps too similar to throw the other off his guard. Evenly matched and heavily armored, it had come down in the end to hammering, gripping, smashing and gouging.

The Fires of Perdition had long since dimmed and flickered out, their summoners slain, though faint shadows seemed to still hang in the air where the smoke had been. As soon as the flames died down the full warband had crept forward with their weapons ready, but Ashura had held them back with a raised hand and a shake of her head. With a little awkward confusion they had formed a semicircle at the edge of the battleground and became spectators. Some watched the unfolding savagery with unease and disgust (Xan and Garrick,) or with cautious curiosity (Skie, who stared wide-eyed, but kept cringing back at the sound of each heavy blow,) or outright amusement (Shar-Teel –who laughed and kept up a running commentary– and Viconia, wearing the look of a mildly entertained spectator in the stands of an arena.)

An ugly, desperate struggle; the duel had truly been decided by sword pommels, mailed fists and hammering crossguards, along with a lot of kicking and grappling. And it was not quite over yet.

As Dorn struggled to keep from falling over and Simmeon wheezed and gagged, hands weakly clawing at his staved-in breastplate, Shar-Teel let out one of her sharp, taunting laughs. "Ha! Can't quite finish it can you?"

Turning his head just slightly, Dorn scowled at her through tight, bleary eyes. Then he dropped fully to his hands and knees. Ignoring Shar-Teel's next laugh, he crawled forward towards his fallen foe, grunting out soft words along the way in what sounded like a chant.

Struggling to push himself up slightly, Dorn reached out and gripped the curled horns of Simmeon's helmet. He braced himself, drew in a sharp breath, then with a sudden burst of strength he _wrenched_ sharply. There was an ugly crunch, along with the sound of steel grinding, as the Champion of Azothet's head twisted at an angle that was painful even to watch. He lurched a few times, then the wheezing breaths stopped.

All was still and silent for a moment, then above the two champions wisps of smoke and shadow began to spiral upward. Gradually the curls wove together into something resembling the face of a horned bear, split by a bestial grin. From the spot where Simmeon lay a figure floated upwards, formed from smoke and ether; a human silhouette, limp as it was pulled by unseen forces towards the sky and the widening maw of the beast.

The Daemon Lord chomped down greedily, then with a wink the smoke blew away and the image was gone, as if none of it had really been there at all. _In fact…_

Ashura glanced around at the others. Only Imoen was looking pensively up towards the forest canopy and sky, everyone else oblivious. _Only Imoen. And me. Just like in the circle._

"There," was all Dorn said, voice flat, and Ashura found herself wondering if the victory tasted a little sour now that he knew how much he had been used.

"So you did have something left," Shar-Teel observed. "That's the trouble with horned helmets, eh? Perfect thing to grab on to."

"Aren't you wearing a horned helmet?" Imoen asked her.

Shar-Teel's lips curled a little as she nodded. "And grabbing and twisting is _exactly_ how I killed the man I took this helmet from." She tapped one of the horns. "Has me thinking I should wear something different. Especially when I duel this big meathead."

Dorn didn't acknowledge the comment. He had slipped back into a kneeling position and was catching his breath, though he seemed less winded and wounded than he had been moments ago, his vigor restored by killing his foe just as it had been with Kryll. Once he had recovered he looked down, pondering his fallen nemesis a moment. Then he wobbled to his feet.

Dorn's eyes then turned to Ashura, and when he said nothing she eventually filled the silence with a question. "So the job's done?"

Bending down to yank Simmeon's great helm off his misaligned head, Dorn's tusks finally showed with a smile, and he chuckled. "Some job you performed," he noted dryly, though there was no malice in his voice.

"You seemed to want all the revenge-killing to yourself," Ashura said with a shrug. "Complained about people 'stealing' it." Her eyes narrowed. "And I don't appreciate being used by some daemon lord."

"I did not intend…" Dorn began, then shook his head. "Bah. But you saw. I seem to have been a pawn to greater powers this whole time. Chafes me as much as you."

"Not as much. You made a choice."

"And where did you get _your_ powers? The ones that allowed you to stay within the ring of flames."

"I don't bloody know. But it wasn't by choice."

"Lucky you then, spawn of Perdition. Or what was it the voices called you? _'Godchild?'_ " Ashura glared and Dorn went on. "Some would kill for the powers you seem to wield. Draining the life from your enemies. Or scattering them before you in terror."

"She can pull poison outa' people too," Imoen put in.

"Anyway," Ashura growled as she held out a flattened palm, eager to change the subject.

With a laugh Dorn swiftly lifted the coinpouch from his belt and tossed it to her. "I hope you don't mind if I keep the helmet. A souvenir of my vengeance."

Ashura just shrugged and with a nod Dorn placed the great helm upon his head. It was made of enameled black steel trimmed with silver, open only at a narrow cross-slit for the eyes and mouth and decorated with curled black horns like those of a devil. Clad head-to-toe now in darkened armor, Dorn looked every bit the black knight from a storybook. He just needed some glowing red eyes.

"It is a nice helmet," Shar-Teel agreed as Dorn hefted his greatsword and set it upon his shoulder. "Wonder if I can repeat your twisting trick when we have our duel."

All Dorn did was snort before he turned and sauntered towards the forest.

"Bah!" Shar-Teel snarled after him, taking a few steps herself. Her hand rested on the hilt of her sword. "That was joke. I _promise_ not to hurt your precious little neck. We'll just fight to first blood."

Dorn kept walking.

"You said you would!"

"Become a champion of Azothet," Dorn shot back over his shoulder. "As I told you before: that is the only sort I am interested in 'dueling.' And there's an opening now."

"I serve no one," Shar-Teel growled.

"An attitude I once shared. 'Til I found power more appealing than the illusion of freedom. Perhaps you'll come around some day. You'd make a fine blackguard."

"Flattery will get you nowhere." They continued towards the forest path. "And you _agreed_ to a duel!" Shar-Teel insisted. "I remember."

Pausing, Dorn looked full over his shoulder, face hidden by the black helm. "Another time perhaps. I've just had the fight of my life, and I'm quite tired. I need an ale. Not a duel."

"You got the piss beaten out of you and need some time to curl up and cry while the bruises clear? Fine. Fine." She stabbed a finger at his back. "But next time I see you, I'm going to test what you're really made of. In a way that puffed-up pig in the black Harvestide-festival costume couldn't!"

"Fine," Dorn snarled. "We'll duel next time we meet." As he turned his head and started again in the direction of his horse he seemed to mutter something more under his breath.

Turning around, Shar-Teel gestured at Ashura. "Since we're out of good fights, I guess it's time to divide that purse." One side of her mouth curled up sharply. "And find somewhere to spend it. Town's only a few hours off. I say we drink away our earnings at the Burning Wizard."

"Good plan," Ashura agreed with a weary nod. They parted ways with Dorn and made Beregost by dusk, where they easily found their way to the tavern. Celebrations followed, though soon they found themselves in search of more work.

* * *

As the sun set over Beregost twenty-eight days later, the adventurers rolled into town once again; bone-weary, in desperate need of a bath, and weighted down heavy with treasure.

'We really need to find one of those bags of holding you're always hearing 'bout,' Imoen had observed several times along the journey, first when they had been struggling to bag up a bulky pile of middling gems and jewelry in a basilisk's nest, then later when they were picking through a wretched-smelling pile of corpses and valuables deep in the basement of Ulcaster's ruins. The fact that people kept insisting on rewarding them with piles of cumbersome, individual coins (often partly in silver,) had almost become a nuisance too.

Things had begun with a simple bounty hunt, the mercenaries setting off to track some madman named Brage who had been slaughtering travelers with a powerful (and supposedly cursed,) sword. He had been easy enough to find, out on a side-road between Beregost and Nashkel choked with corpses and overturned carts, but when they had confronted him some woman had leapt out from the trees to Brage's defense, swinging a mace at them and screaming about how the madman could still be saved. Things had not ended well for either of them, though the sword had been a terror to watch in action.

Then, on the trail back to the Coastway Road, they had come upon a small camp of laborers who were digging up some ancient mound. The leader of the excavation, a very enthusiastic scholar named Charleston Nib, had mistaken them for brigands at first ('Easy thing to do,' Garrick had remarked with a sidelong glance at Shar-Teel,) but when he realized that they weren't he had offered them a job.

It had seemed a meager task really –guarding the site– but Ashura liked the idea of sitting around doing potentially nothing for once. A bit like the days on the caravan trail, but hopefully with fewer bandits. Nib had been stingy at first, spouting some nonsense about the excavation being a 'nonprofit venture,' but they had eventually talked him to a reasonable price and taken their positions around the dig site.

A simple and easy job. Except for the part the next day when every laborer who entered some chamber deep in the mound came out raving in an unknown tongue and trying to kill everyone else with their picks and shovels. _And_ the part where Nib's partner Gallor tried to run off in the chaos with an idol that had been dragged out of the cave, only to be struck down by a spectral creature with a flaming sword. _And_ the part where the specter attacked everyone nearby.

But when the dust had settled, the laborers were dead, and the wraith had dissipated Nib had at least paid them (before fleeing the site as fast as he could.) And the reward for proof of Brage's death had been even greater. And the reward for clearing the wolves out of the ruins of Ulcaster's School ( _of course_ they had turned out to be hellhounds that had emerged from a portal where the students used to practice conjuration. Of-bloody- _course_!) had been greater still.

In between those little ventures there had been days of rest in Beregost, some treasure hunting along the coast that had been thankfully less eventful then their journey with Safana, and of course the basilisk hunt through a garden of stone and horrors. Quite an ordeal, even with some preparation, but in the end none of them had ended up statues or (worse still,) piles of rubble.

So all told the month they had spent stumbling from one profitable disaster to another in the wilderness had been worthwhile. Still, as they headed into town from the eastern temple (where they had collected their latest reward,) all Ashura wanted to do was hitch her horse, kick up her feet, eat a decent meal, and not think of bounty hunts for a good long time. The burnt gouge that one of the hellhounds had left in the back of her thigh still itched.

Once again the Burning Wizard seemed the best option, and it was there that Shar-Teel had led them, taking Garrick and Skie by the arms and dragging them through the scrapwood door with talk of getting 'Good and shitfaced!'

Ashura was a bit less enthusiastic. The Wizard was stocked with nearly every sort of drink you can imagine, but what little food they served was atrocious ('Grease smattered with some breading and…oh! I think that's a very sad, triple-diced little tuber swimming in there?' was how Imoen had described it when they were last in town,) and she didn't particularly want to sleep in a dingy flophouse again. Not with all of her gems and reward-money begging to be spent, and luxury rooms and fine meals out there to be had.

There was one possible problem though.

"Ya think we're still welcome here?" Imoen whispered as they made their way towards the iron fence and broad walls of Feldpost's Inn, Xan following a cautious step behind the pair. "Or…you know: any of the nice inns in Beregost?"

On their way to the door they slipped past a pair of prostitutes who always seemed to be milling about in front of Feldpost's, and one of the women –the redhead– glanced up with wide and horrified eyes, her teeth showing as she clamped down on the stem of her pipe. Ashura sent a tentative wave and the most apologetic look she could manage back at the poor woman, remembering the last time they had seen each other. _Wasn't my fault_ she wanted to say, but decided it was best to walk by quickly and step up to the whitewashed door of the inn.

"We'll find out in moment," Ashura muttered as she pushed through. Since they had been kicked out of the Red Sheaf on their first-ever visit to town, and smashed up quite a bit of the Juggler last time they were there, it seemed like Feldpost's was their best option. Provided the owner had never figured out that they had kidnapped and murdered one of his guests, of course. _Ugh._

With the nice pile of treasure they had gathered Ashura was in the mood to settle in somewhere cozy for a while, but Beregost was probably not the place for that long-term. Baldur's Gate was a lot more appealing, with far more inns to get kicked out of, and maybe they could even afford a decent townhouse. But for now a good meal was the first thing on her mind.

The cavernous taproom of Feldpost's was much as she remembered it; cozy and colorful and quiet, the rich red carpets and wall-hangings dampening the chatter of the well-dressed patrons and the clinks of their cutlery. Red and gold dominated the room, the primary colors of the curtains, the rugs, the tablecloths and…

Something oddly familiar caught her eye. Red robes and gold jewelry. _Surely not._

But the figure at the far table was facing them, and those moonstone-encrusted bracers and that circlet were quite distinctive. Not to mention the braided black moustache. All doubt fled when the man looked up from his plate of untouched food, raised a spindly hand, and _waved_ at them, seemingly unsurprised.

Ashura's eyes widened.

"Cyric's tongue!" Imoen swore beside her, mouth agape. Then her hand shot to her dagger and yanked it free before she started to stalk across the carpet, Ashura following fast at her heels and wondering if they were about to get kicked out of an another inn.

Edwin Odesseiron simply gave the girl a bemused look as she neared him and held her dagger high, gasps ringing out from the nearby patrons. "You!" Imoen snarled. "You tried to feed us to a pack of gnolls! And you have the nerve ta…ta wave?!"

Clear as it was that Imoen was just waving the dagger around for dramatic effect, Ashura reached over and carefully placed her hand on the back of her friend's wrist. Hopefully that would calm the guests. Meanwhile Xan was watching the red wizard with narrow eyes, his hand on his pouch of spell components. Likely sizing the other mage up.

"That is not quite how I remember our last parting," Edwin stated dryly. "In point of fact, I _clearly_ remember providing you with the means to overcome the mangy dogs in the form of combat-enhancing spells. A most gracious gift, for which you should be thanking me."

"Thanking! Thanking!" The dagger started to flick forward and Ashura gripped Imoen's wrist for real now. "You _betrayed_ us!"

The red mage rolled his eyes. "Such unseemly melodrama. What I did was lay events out perfectly and elegantly, in a manner that would best suit my mission, _and_ (lest we forget) insure the continued survival of you, your lovely friend," he gave Ashura a nod, "and your blonde war-wench. A courtesy (since you did assist me with those annoying hobgoblins.)"

"A courtesy! You…you fork-tongued, back-biting, primped-up, snail-sucking, Beshaba-breathed…"

Ashura interrupted Imoen's stammering attempts to come up with more insults by chuckling. "Events 'laid out perfectly and elegantly' huh? That's not exactly how I remember it."

That seemed to insult Edwin far more than any mention of Beshaba-breath or snail-sucking. Whiskers shook as he scowled and titled his head. "I _may_ have…let us say underestimated the absolute indestructability of a certain Rashemi berserker. A _rare_ miscalculation."

"Uh huh," Ashura simply said with a smirk, letting go of Imoen and taking a seat at the table. Behind her Imoen let out a 'hrmph' and sheathed her dagger, arms crossing.

"In any case," the red mage continued, bridging his fingers, "that annoying ox-man shall not be around to interfere with my current plans. Plans –I should add– that capable warriors such as yourselves-"

"What?!" Imoen squeaked. "You can't seriously-"

"Do you not hire yourselves out as mercenaries? There have been quite a few stories of your exploits floating around this backwater village. And the ridiculous amount of armaments, wands and magical potions on your person certainly adds to the impression (though the elf looks more a pampered prince than a hired sword.)"

"We don't hire out to snakes like _you_ ," Imoen snapped. "Hells, just last week we were working for an evil asshole who was completely full of himself. Why should we hire out to another one?"

In answer Edwin simply stretched out his hands and displayed his fingers, gem encrusted rings sparkling in the lamplight along with the moonstones on his bracers. "Because I can pay handsomely of course," he stated proudly. "And in a currency I doubt your former employers could manage: arcane paraphernalia that will keep even a foolish baboon such as yourself alive far longer than you are due."

Imoen rolled her eyes and fluttered her lips like a horse. "That's a great recruiting strategy you've got, ya know. Tell someone you wanna hire them then insult them as much as you can. Not that we'd dream of working for you to begin with!"

"'We?' Is that the royal we, or does the dark haired warrior now lack the wits to speak for herself?"

Ashura just chuckled and pointed back at Imoen with a hooked thumb. "I go where she goes. And yeah, we really are on a 'no working for evil assholes' break."

"A pity. What I had in mind was an exceedingly simple task as well. I need a book retrieved from a house in Baldur's Gate. And in exchange I have a wide sampling of rings-"

"I know something of the forging of arcane rings," Xan cut him off, eyes on the Thayan's fingers.

"Then you can attest to the quality of my wares," Edwin countered. "This ring, for instance, quickens and expands the mind, facilitating the ability to understand more spells, among other things. I imagine you would benefit a great deal from something that fills the gaping void between your pointed ears."

Xan just gave him an even look, and the red mage continued, tapping a second gold band. "This other ring I wear may be more appealing to-"

"Odesseiron!" a man with a thick accent bellowed from the top of the nearby stairs, making Edwin reflexively bend forward and cringe, shoulders rising slightly. Three figures were sauntering down the steps; a bald, wrinkled man in the lead, his head decorated with tattoos and his broad robes as red and resplendent as Edwin's. He was followed closely by a much younger Thayan dressed in a less gaudy robe, and a dark haired woman in a wispy, boldly slit dress. Ashura recognized the woman, who was trying to tame and tie up her rather tousled-looking hair. It was the other prostitute she had last seen fleeing down the hall of the Jovial Juggler months ago, during that…unfortunate incident.

Once he reached the bottom of the staircase the leading Thayan shook his head with disapproval and swept a hand in Ashura, Xan and Imoen's direction. "Those are _not_ white haired half-elves," he observed. "Have you forgotten that you have a job to perform? And it is not consorting with western whores."

"(No, obviously that task falls to you, Ekandor,)" Edwin muttered under his breath.

The older man seemed to hear him clearly, thought the comment simply drew a grin. "Obviously," he stated, patting the woman on her bottom as she walked past him. The prostitute just rolled her eyes and made her way towards the door, and Ekandor spoke on. "It is one of the perks of seniority, and having a reputation for results and _success_." His smirk grew and a chiding tone entered his measured voice. "My little witch-hunter." He waved his hand dismissively. "Now get back to your search."

With an embarrassed grimace Edwin pushed himself up from the table. "I suppose I shall get to it then. (One day. One day.)" He looked over at Ashura. "And I don't suppose _you_ have seen a young half-elven girl with short white hair? Quite distinct looking." When she shrugged and the others said nothing Edwin sighed. "Of course not." And with that he hobbled away and out of the common room, the other two Thayans making their way to the bar.

As soon as Edwin was gone Imoen plopped down at the table and pulled his abandoned plate close, immediately snatching up one of the stuffed buns and biting in. "Serves him right," she said as she chewed. "Ha! Acts so imperious, but turns out he's just a cowed little mageling." She dug into her a meal, and eventually a rotund woman made her way to the table and took their order for several more plates, including some food Ashura intended to take back to the others (hopefully Shar-Teel hadn't gotten Garrick completely incapacitated with drink by now.)

Later that night they found the innkeep and discussed boarding, and to Ashura's great relief he seemed to barely remember them.

* * *

Midday found the companions slowly guiding their horses north through the streets of Beregost, half of them a bit hungover and the other half well rested, but all with full bellies and clean faces at least. They were on their way to the familiar road to the Friendly Arm, and after a stop there they had decided to ride for the Gate and likely stay for a good long while. It would be a wise place to settle in for the winter, and after a little buying and selling in the Beregost market they were sure they had enough gold piled up to settle comfortably.

It was a good day for traveling too, even if they were getting a late start. The sky was an empty blue, and the still autumn air was pleasantly crisp. Of course they had just turned onto the northern track of the Coastway when a complication arose.

Just like always.

It came in the form of a short, slight girl of perhaps twenty, running down the road in their direction. There was an overwhelmed, desperate look in her eyes, her ears were sharply pointed, and her hair was white and pixie-short. Ashura groaned internally at the sight of her, letting out a deep breath through her nostrils. _The white-haired half-elf. Hunted by red wizards. Of course. Of bloody course._

The half-elf carried nothing, and was dressed in a rather minimal black bodice and riveted leather trousers tucked into sturdy boots. When she spoke her words came spilling out, voice nasal and quavering. "You! Hey you!" she called out to Ashura, arms waving wildly. "Yes, you! A little help please?!"

"With what?" Ashrua growled, already assuming the answer.

"There's bandits!" the girl yelped. "Vicious, magic bandits! They must have gone to advanced bandit school or something. They're trying to capture me!"

"'There are some mages after me' would have been a simpler way to put it," Xan observed.

"Yeah, well that wouldn't have emphasized their sinister, bandity nature!" the half-elf countered.

"Look," Ashura grumbled. "We don't want to get between- hey!"

Imoen had just elbowed her hard in the ribs. "A girl behind chased by _hunters_. That ring a bell? Remind you of anyone? Huh?"

With another grumble Ashura looked over her should, swords slipping out into her hands. "Alright, alright. Garrick, guide the horses back a bit will you?"

"Yes sir," the bard replied before he began to sing a wordless drover's song.

Stepping in beside the half-elf and looking down the road, Ashura muttered. "Guess we're protecting you then. Would be nice if we could at least get paid."

"Sheesh," the white-haired girl complained. "People like you really bolster my faith in strangers."

"Or you could at least tell us _why_ the red wizards are after you?"

"Well, I'd love to give you a long and detailed explanation," the half-elf said as figures crested the hill and began to march forward. "But oh look!" She pointed. "We're out of time." With those words she squirmed in behind Ashura and some of the others, taking cover.

Just as Ashura had figured, the trio of Thayans from yesterday walked into view, flanked by two towering gnolls with dark fur, armored plates and halberds. As before the older red wizard –Ekandor– took the lead, a confident gleam in his eyes. And as before Edwin was scowling.

Easing into a ready stance and lightly gripping her swords, Ashura shouted at the approaching mages: "So! You want this girl for something?" The others had begun to fan out behind her.

Ekandor sneered. "I see you've found some fools to hide behind, Neera."

"Yeah, well _excuuuuse_ me for not wanting creepy bald guys to get ahold of me so they can get elbow-deep in my brains!" the half-elf squeaked back.

"Red wizards do have a reputation for that," Imoen noted, eliciting an eyeroll from Edwin.

Ekandor's eyes shifted to Ashura. "This half-elven girl is a particularly potent wild mage; a danger to herself and others. We are here to study her anomalous powers, and keep the world safe from them. Now step aside. You've no idea what she's capable of. And do you truly wish to risk your lives for a stranger?"

Ashura glared. "Eight of us against the three of you, plus your little dogs? I think you're the one who needs to step aside."

"Yeah!" Neera added, still hiding behind Ashura. "You get away from here before me and my new friends decide to inject a fist into your mouth!"

Rolling up his sleeves, Ekandor shook his head. "We shall have her. Willingly or no." As the red mage had been speaking Neera had pressed her hands together in an arcane gesture, and Ekandor immediately replied by cupping his own hands and starting to chant something. From there everyone moved at once, swords swishing through the air and bowstrings drawing back taunt and chants starting up.

Instead of magic words Neera shouted: "Away with you, you pompous creep!" but that seemed to have the same effect: a heat-shimmer flecked with gold grew around both her and the red mage.

Less than a blink later there was a rush of air and a popping sound, and Neera and Ekandor seemed to change places, the Thayan's hand-motions going erratic at the sudden surprise. The power that had been building between his palms just turned to sputtering, purple smoke.

But the shimmer around him and the wild mage remained, then expanded, and suddenly everyone in the area was wavering. In flash Ashura felt her stomach lurch hard, and when the haze cleared she found herself standing back to back with Edwin. In fact everyone had shifted to a slightly different spot, gnolls and Thayans and mercenaries alike, and all three red mages cursing when they realized that their spells had been disrupted.

_ "Iblith'kyrn faern!" _ Apparently the same thing had happened to Viconia.

Neera was having no problems with her magic though; she was already chanting in draconic and building up another spell, bright fuchsia light growing around her fists and her wild hair standing and swaying. Before Ekandor could get an arcane word in Neera slammed her fists together, aimed in his direction, and she broke from her chant to shout: "Eat flaming –or possibly frosty– death!"

The blast of pulsating fuchsia ballooned into a blinding light, then with a puff and a wheeze it blinked out, a few sparks falling to the ground. Neera glanced down at her fists, then up to the sneering and completely unaffected red wizard, then down to her fists again. "Oh shit," she muttered.

Ekandor took a triumphant step forward, gesturing and calling up runes to orbit around him like a shield, but then the ground beneath him began to shake and he stopped advancing, brow crinkling. Ashura and the rest took an instinctive step back as well, the air now filling with a sulfur smell and a sound like stone grinding upon stone.

The effect seemed centered just between Neera and Ekandor, where little flashes started to bubble in the air, resolving into objects. They seemed to be bones –prismatic and ghostly– rotating and knitting together as soon as they appeared. The strange formation grew into two pillars that bent and arched together, and between the bones the air began to shimmer; red and white and black, smoke and flames spiraling into what appeared to be a newly formed portal.

At the sight of it Neera backed away, her eyes wide with terror and her empty hands raised defensively. "Shit! Shit! Shit!" she repeated. "Not again!" And with that she whirled on her heel and fled as fast as she could down the road.

"Is that a…gate?" Imoen murmured, taking another step back.

Shadows spun between the pillars of bone, congealing into a pair of broad draconic wings that stretched wider and wider as they emerged from the burning vortex. They were followed by fingers as long as Ashura's hands, thin and sharp as swords, and those fingers gripped the edge of the gate to haul the rest of the creature through. Next came a beastly red face with glowing amber eyes and a shaggy black mane perched upon a long, thin neck. A gaunt body of sinew and bone followed, red and gleaming like it had been stripped down to the muscle. Lastly long clawed feet stepped over the threshold, flames erupting where they touched the cobblestone road.

"Is that a…demon?!" Garrick stammered as the creature glanced around at the new world it had just entered. Ashura took a cautious step forward, swords pointed at the new arrival, but an ice-cold wave sent her reeling back and drew an involuntary shiver. Her jaw hung open, eyes wide, paralyzed by fear and awe.

The demon had focused on the younger Thayan now, and it let out a growl that sent smoke billowing from its mouth and nostrils. A ghostly shimmer shot through the air from the creature's eyes, but it seemed to deflect harmlessly off protective runes that flared up around the mage.

The demon's snarls turned into a howl of rage and in a blur it rushed for the man, fire trailing each furious step. One of the gnolls leapt forward, growling right back and swinging its poleaxe overhand, but with terrifyingly fast reflexes the shaft of the axe was snatched and held tight. The demon and the gnoll locked eyes, and once again something shimmered out from the demon's gaze, bridging the space between them.

With a high canine yelp the gnoll seemed to shrink back and physically wither, its eyes going a blank and rheumy-white, and its lips wrinkling and rolling back to expose teeth and gums. Its paws went limp and it let go of the poleaxe, stumbling backwards, jerky like a marionette, and as it did the demon hefted the halberd and rushed forward with another shocking burst of speed, looming over the young red wizard. The axe-blade came down even faster, there was a brief flash of light as it struck some sort of barrier, and then the steel pushed through and buried itself deep in the red wizard's bald forehead, his arms flopping to the side and the magic that had been building upon his fingers turning to smoke.

Ashura was shaking her head vigorously now, trying to warm the ice water in her veins, but before she could another wave seemed to hit her. Her vision blurred, the world swirled and shifted all around, and then her legs were suddenly not hers to command; the streets and houses of Beregost zipping by as she turned past one towering building, then another and another.

It was like some nightmare, haplessly fleeing through endless streets. The sort of nightmare that would end if she could only make herself turn. Turn and fight.

A snarl of frustration shook her out of the dream and she skidded on the cobbles. There was a clink as her armored side struck something solid, and she found herself leaning and righting herself against the obelisk in the Beregost town square, panting hard. _Damn. Ran pretty far._

It came as a relief when she saw Garrick and Shar-Teel steak by and keep on running, side by side and driven on by the demon's fear. And it came as a surprise when Ashura glanced over and realized that Edwin was leaning against the obelisk beside her, a smug look on his face rather than terror. She shot him a glare and he turned his eyes back down the street.

"This, of course, is bad," the red wizard observed dryly. There were panicked shouts erupting through the town, and plumes of black smoke were rising from the north.

"Yeah," Ashura muttered, turning towards the smoke. At least Garrick was okay. But what about Imoen?

"I can," Edwin added, rubbing his hands together, "of course, banish the demon. Conjuration is my specialty in fact."

She kept glaring, and Edwin turned back to her, an expectant look on his face. "Okay," Ashura snarled. "Do it!"

But Edwin seemed to be in no hurry, and the only action he took was to straighten his robes and brush some imaginary durst from the bright red fabric. "Such presumption," he complained. "For a western barbarian to _order_ a Red Wizard of Thay about." With a dramatic shake of his head he watched the smoke rise higher. "Convenient that the demon disposed of Ekandor's sniveling little toady, but I would prefer to wait until we are sure it has slain the old man himself. Hopefully-"

"That thing might be killing my friends! If you don't banish it right NOW-"

"Yes, yes," Edwin cut her off with a dismissive wave of his hand. "We've established how valuable your friends are to you. Especially your redheaded sister. And I shall be happy to save them. For a price."

"I'll do anything you ask," she replied immediately. "Just banish the demon. Now!"

Edwin's eyes actually went wide at that, and he looked taken aback. "You…you would agree without first hearing terms?"

"Sure. Whatever. Now let's banish the fucking demon!" She pointed down the street with her righthand sword. At the moment she didn't particularly care what 'favor' he asked. Not like he had a contract written in Infernal for her to sign, witnessed by a notary and affirmed by Dispater himself.

So if he demanded too much later she could always just kill him.

"If I had known you were such a poor negotiator…" Edwin shook his head. "As it is I will simply ask for your assistance procuring the book I discussed earlier, in Baldur's Gate."

"Fine. We were headed there anyway. Now BANISH!"

"Very well then." He pointed to a spot in the shadow of the obelisk. "I will draw the binding circle there, though we'll need to lead the demon to it for it to work. Could you…"

"Lure the demon?" Ashura growled, turning towards the northern street and beginning to stomp forward. "Sure."

"Do you have a way to overcome the aura of fear? A potion perhaps?"

"I can do it."

"Wait!" Edwin shouted after her before she had taken off. "This creature is a nabassu. If the demon locks eyes with you for a significant time it can draw your lifeforce out, leaving you a ghoulish husk under its command, like it did with that gnoll. Perhaps ghoulification would improve your attitude (and your intelligence as well,) but you may wish to avoid it."

With a nod Ashura took off running, the proud square houses of Beregost once again blurring by. Following the screams and the smoke was easy enough, and as she ran she slipped a small glass flask from a pouch at her belt. Not proof against fear, but maybe it would help.

Slowing slightly so the contents wouldn't slosh out, Ashura bit the cork and pulled it free, then tossed the bottle back and gulped as fast as she could, warmth quickly flowing through her veins the way it might from a sudden shot of liquor. She paused when the bottle was halfway drained, grimacing at the sour taste, then forced herself to down the rest. The warmth grew, unnatural strength spreading through her limbs, and when she went from a jog to a full sprint once again her boots drummed hard against the street.

There were screams ahead, just around the bend, and before she turned it two men from the town militia raced by with high-pitched squeals, their spears abandoned behind them. She dodged around the fleeing peasants, turned a corner, and came upon the scene of the battle. A decapitated corpse lay on its back nearby, blood pooling on the cobbles and into the gutter, and there was another body curled up in fetal position on the other side of the street beside a dead gnoll. No one she knew at least; the dead seemed to be wearing the same uniform leathers as the other militia.

There were other men and women dressed the same, holding pikes or spears or swords, some backing away from the demon but most standing as still as statues, a supernatural sheen clinging to them. Skie was among them –on the far end of the street– seemingly paralyzed with an arrow knocked and drawn.

In addition to the warriors there were three priests clustered together, the rising sun of Lathander stamped upon their tabards and their holy symbols held aloft as they chanted with quaking voices. Bright rays of light arced in over their heads, focused on the emaciated gnoll, which seemed to be cowering as smoke rose from its fur. Smoke rose from the footprints that the demon had left as well, and there were flames lapping and climbing up the side of a nearby house.

Of Ashura's other companions there was no sign. Hopefully they had had the good sense to flee or at least find cover even if the fear had not effected them. _Unlike me._ Ashura was still running forward, eyes narrow and focused.

The demon itself was ignoring the priests, Skie, and militia at the moment, advancing instead on Ekandor, who had just clapped his hands together and barked out a hasty spell. The air rippled all around him as bolts of arcane force welled up and arced towards the nabassu in a storm, each bursting into blue sparks, to little effect. The demon countered by lunging and swinging the stolen halberd in an effortless sideways swing, but the blade of the axe passed through the red wizard with a waver instead of a thunk, obviously hitting an illusory decoy.

Ashura fought to push through the waves of fear that rolled off the demon's body as it raged and roared, searching for the real Ekandor. The waves were palpable and felt frustratingly solid, but with her teeth clenched, head tilted, and eyes down she tried to _channel_ that frustration, pushing back. In a burst she closed the last few paces, boiling blood dispelling the ice in her veins and putting everything into the first swing of her leading sword.

The blow caught the demon by surprise, snapping bone and slicing membrane with a wet crunch that nearly severed a wing. _That_ got its attention!

Faster than Ashura could follow the creature whirled and countered, and she found herself doubling over, boots scraping the street as she flew backwards from a blunt blow to the gut.

Cartwheeling arms and dancing feet and desperate lurching kept her from falling. She had almost stopped and straightened by the time steel streaked in from her right; the blade of the halberd this time instead of the butt. Her ears filled with a metallic _screech_ and _clang_ and the blow sent her pitching to the side and rolling across the cobblestones, the hilts of her swords clacking against the ground. No way to keep on her feet now.

Senseless, vision flashing and ears ringing, she found herself fighting to push up; to shake her head until it cleared.

No time for that though. A shadow had fallen over her. Smoke filled her nostrils and heatwaves buffeted her cheek. And above her the demon let out a howl that overcame the screeching in her ears. No time to clear her head. Nothing there but mindless fury anyway.

She _shot_ up, lefthand sword leading the way, its blade biting into the halberd's haft. Her right sword followed and the demon deflected it with the axeblade, then it twisted and tried to swing the staff from a different angle. Ashura followed each motion, matching the creature blow for blow, swings bolstered by rage and magic.

Unthinking, lumbering, ducking and snarling, she hacked at the poleaxe and splinters flew. At one point the demon lurched back and freed a claw, flinging a bolt of something insubstantial her way, bringing on a clenching sensation. But she _refused_ to be stilled, and her next blow nearly broke the halberd in half.

There was a vague notion –in the corner of her mind– that she was supposed to be doing something else. Running? Fleeing? Surely no. Rage and retreat were incompatible.

She lunged again and the hissing face of the demon loomed close, her right sword slicing down and into the pole of the halberd with a satisfying snap, the follow-through of her lefthand blade passing through flying splinters to cut through demon flesh. Black blood glittered and streaked across the creature's cheek, and it turned its head, as if punched.

But an instant later it became a blur and countered, a force like a battering-ram striking the breath from Ashura's chest. This time she failed to keep her feet planted; this time she _flew_ , bits of broken chain torn from her armor and gleaming as they floated out before her and seemed to hang suspended in the air.

Then reality rushed in _hard_ and she struck the cobbles with a jolt.

The winged shadow rushed in to strike her again, and now she was scrambling and rolling and fighting for footing. She twisted backwards and claws raked past her, then _another_ sweeping slash of the demon's flattened hand glanced off the plate at her shoulder and dented it with a clang.

The damned thing's fists and claws seemed an even more potent weapon than the halberd had been! What a useless victory!

A furious leap and she was standing again, wobbly. The blows and the scrambling had moved them both well down the street, beyond the burning building, and something tall and smooth and white loomed in the corner of Ashura's vision. The obelisk.

_ Oh yeah! _ She was supposed to…go there? There had been a plan-

As if in answer an irritated male voice called out across the square. "What are you doing you idiot?!" it demanded of her. "Can you not even follow the most basic directions and instructions?"

Turning on her heel, Ashura glared towards the source of the voice, and something half-remembered compelled her to seek it out, rage driving her feet forward. It only seemed to take a couple of strides to dash to the obelisk, a figure in red standing beyond it with his arms crossed and a disapproving glare on his face.

"You finally figured out-" the arrogant bastard began, but Ashura couldn't hear the rest of his words over the full-throated roar she was letting out. The man cringed and took an involuntary step backwards as she ran at him with leveled swords.

Before she reached him a wall of flashing red symbols flew up before her, clinging to her skin and armor like a web that slowed and then stopped her in her tracks. The runes wavered in the air all around her, lines of script bending and undulating with her struggles.

It was a bit like walking at the bottom of the ocean, but she managed to force one foot in front of the other. The glyphs had only held her for a breath's span, then they parted, allowing her to stumble through.

For a moment Ashura shook her head, disoriented, then the howling and thrashing of the demon close behind brought her back into focus, and she whirled around and straightened. The wall of glyphs was still there, ghostly and translucent, and the nabassu was beating upon them with its fists.

"You're a strange one," an acerbic, thickly accented voice stated from right beside her. Ashura turned, trying to blink back the fuzziness in her head as she looked at Edwin, then the demon, then Edwin again. "My wards should not have…responded to you like that," the red wizard went on. "For a moment I thought you were breaking them, but in the end you did pass through." Edwin's eyes were on the demon, which was giving up its struggle. Soon it just placed its palms against the barrier and growled.

"And for a brief moment," Edwin added "it almost looked like you were _charging_ me rather than luring the demon through the wards."

"Eh," Ashura grunted, squeezing her eyes shut then opening them. Pains both sharp and dull were starting to sneak up on her, now that the adrenaline was seeping away. She shrugged. "Well, we caught it didn't we?"

"Indeed." He straightened a bit, hands hidden in his sleeves and a pleased look on his face.

"An adequate job, I suppose," Ekandor interrupted as he approached both them and the demon. "Perhaps it was wise to bring a conjurer along after all, despite your reputation." He gave the entire scene –demon, Edwin, smoke and all– a distasteful shake of his head. "What a disaster. A shame to loose Brendan. He was a promising boy." Straightening a bit, the red wizard clasped his hands behind his back. "Though surely the girl has not gotten far, and hopefully this stunt depleted her most…destructive and chaotic magics. My divinations should track her easily enough."

Turning curtly, Ekandor looked to Edwin. "Odesseiron," he commanded, then gestured with an open hand at the demon and said something in a language Ashura couldn't follow.

Edwin nodded, a blank look on his face. "It shall be banished," he replied, then faced the demon, a commanding tone entering his voice. "Nabassu! You understand the nature of the planar bindings I have placed about you, and what they compel you to do?"

_ Yes,  _ a gravelly voice whispered, seemingly more in Ashura's head than in the air. The first time the demon had bothered to speak.

"Good." Edwin pointed. "Then kill Ekandor here before you return to the Abyss." The moment the words left his lips Edwin whirled, a wand in hand and pointing forward. He immediately growled out a command-word.

The older Thayan had turned at the same time and begun a spell of his own, blue flames beginning to surge around his fingers, but the faint gust of energy launched from Edwin's wand struck him first. The magic merely seemed to make the air around Ekandor shimmer and do little else, but when the great winged form of the nabassu collided with him at less than a heartbeat later it had much more of an effect.

The fires of Ekandor's spell sputtered out, his body hit the street with an ugly crunch, and the arcane words he had been droning rose up into a scream as fangs and claws tore into him. Sodden clods of red fabric flew, along with bits of flesh, and within a few breaths innards had spilled out upon the cobblestones and the mage's head was attached to his shoulders by the barest of sinew.

Then there was a rush of air; a vacuum opening and filling, and the demon was gone, leaving only a quivering mess behind.

Scowling, Edwin turned his head away, looking a little queasy. "Unseemly. But what can one expect from demons? Still, I'll have to thank that wild mage girl for dropping such an opportunity into my lap."

Once he turned towards Ashura the disgust began to fade, replaced by an arrogant smirk. "Now, I believe we had a deal?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by the first time I recruited Neera while playing the Baldur's Gate: Enhanced Edition. Around level one or two, the very first time she used a spell in a fight (I think it was against xvarts of gibberlings or something like that,) I got: 'Wild surge! Is that a gate? Is that a demon?!' and a raging nabassu appeared in the middle of the battle.


	59. Unwelcome Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edwin and Quayle collide

_ "Your Omnipotence"  _ –Honorific given to a Zulkir of Thay

* * *

"I see you've acquired a few fresh scars since last we met," Edwin observed. His voice was dry as usual; hard for Ashura to tell if she was being mocked or not.

In any case she just shrugged as she handed the bridle of her stallion over to one of the Friendly Arm's grooms. It was nearing twilight, and a waxing Selune hung heavy in the pale and fading sky above them. "Yep," she simply stated. The diagonal gash that Ardenor Crush's sword had left across her cheek had faded quite a bit, but it was still visible, and perhaps it always would be.

"They are far from unbecoming of course," the Thayan continued. "Signs that you are a true and hearty survivor, and rather than mar your beauty I daresay they enhance it."

She looked over at Edwin and quirked a skeptical eyebrow. He really didn't seem to be mocking. _That's a first._ What was his game? And what was that strange tone that had entered his voice? It almost seemed he was attempting to sound…suave?

"I have also noticed," Edwin proceeded, "that you've recently acquired a vapid, frail, starry-eyed little pet as well." He waved a dismissive hand ahead of them, towards Garrick. The bard was walking with Xan up the steps to the keep and talking away, and it looked like Garrick was once again trying to make the elf laugh; a project he had been working at for months with very poor results. This time Xan did seem to indulge his friend with a slight nod, at least.

"Over our journey north," Edwin continued, "I've been trying to solve the mystery of exactly what you see in that annoying little boy. Yet it vexes me still."

_ Ugh. So it's  _ that _game. Really?_ "Boy?" Ashura asked with a chuckle. "He's actually older than me." A shrug. "By a year or two at least. Well-traveled too."

Edwin let out a disbelieving huff. "And well experienced? Somehow I doubt it. Of course I can forgive one as uncultured as yourself for having no idea what kind of bliss the touch of a true master of the erotic arts can-"

"No no no," Ashura repeated to cut him off fast, interposing a hand and clenching her eyes shut as well. "We are _not_ having a conversation about your 'experience' or 'experiences' or 'conquests' or whatever." _Gods!_ So was _that_ the reason he had been so favorable towards her the last time, and why he had offered his little 'deal' in the first place? _Should have realized then._

Edwin chuckled, unperturbed. "Ah, but your prudery and icy nature speaks volumes. You've obviously no idea what we Thayvians-"

"Wait!" Imoen cut in (gods bless her!) "Is it 'Thayvians' or 'Thayans?' I've seen it written both ways. Like, in this old guidebook to the _Unapproachable East_ it was always 'Thayvians." But then in the Drizzt serial when he got captured he had to fight in the 'Thayan' gladiatorial pits."

"Either usage works," Edwin stated, deadpan. "It simply depends on whether or not you are an illiterate, uncouth, uncultured, poorly bred barbarian."

"Thayan it is then," Ashura said with a nod.

Instead of bristling Edwin actually chuckled. "I would expect nothing less of you. Booklearned barbarian." He patted her on the arm then pushed his way up the stone steps, to the keep and its great dining hall while Imoen and Ashura held back for a moment.

"Sheesh," Imoen muttered as they stood there on the stairs. "He's worse than Coran. Not nearly as smooth. And that's sayin' a lot!" She gave Ashura a glare. "Not to mention that he's _totally_ going to betray us! Why are we even letting him tag along? I know he banished the demon and all, but how do we even know it wasn't him who summoned the thing to begin with? Maybe he just made it look like it was that poor wild mage's fault."

Ashura gave that a moment's thought, then snorted. "Eh. Edwin would love for people to think he's that devious and powerful, but I doubt it. And…" She crinkled her lips. _Bah! This is going to be awkward._ "And I think we can trust him not to harm anyone who's not tangled up in his games."

"But why?" Imoen persisted. "I mean…" She sighed. "What happened between the two of you last time? You seemed real conspiratory. I had just assumed maybe you were…" She coughed and made a poking gesture. "Sneaking off to boink. Those couple of times during the late watches at camp. But considering what Mr 'Erotic Arts' said and how you shot him down...and how he wasn't bragging about past encounters-"

"Ims. You've got the dirtiest mind."

"Not as dirty as yours."

"Slightly dirtier."

"Just slightly. Maybe I'll concede that!"

They both chuckled, but there was an expectant look in Imoen's eye, and Ashura found herself turning away. Then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This was a conversation she had hoped to avoid forever, but here they were. So, once she had glanced around and made sure there was no one else within earshot, she just came out and said it:

"Edwin told me that he was planning to kill Dynaheir." Ashura tapped the ring on her right finger. "And he promised me this ring of protection, and to not let any harm come to you or Branwen, if I didn't interfere." Forcing her chin to rise, she turned towards Imoen, a predictably hurt look in her friend's wide blue eyes. "I figured..." Ashura went on. "Well, Thay and Rashemen are at war right? None of my damn business. And the ring's saved me a few times since then."

Imoen sighed. "Just wish you'd told me."

"I didn't think you'd un-"

"Understand letting some poor sod get murdered in exchange for a spiffy magic item? Oh, I _understand_ it alright!" Imoen's arms clasped against her chest and she looked off. "Approve of it? Now that's another matter entirely."

"You would have protested." A cold statement. But there it was.

"I…yeah…I…gah!" Imoen snarled. "Sure do wish it was as simple as you sneaking off to boff the red wizard instead of all this!"

"Yeah. Well." Ashura glared at the ground. "He kept his word through the whole deal. It's how I know he'll keep his word again."

"Oh will he now?" Imoen asked coldly. Her lower lip was twitching a bit.

"He keeps a magic wand in the left breast pocket of his robe," Ashura found herself blurting out. "I saw him use it on Ekandor. It dispels protective magic, or at least protections against physical harm. I'm not entirely sure, but I think it's a wand of _Breach._ Gorion loved that spell. Talked about it a lot. The command word is ' _abat_.'"

Imoen raised an eyebrow. "Oh is it now?"

"If Edwin ever actually looks like he's going to be a threat you should snatch the wand and use it on him." Ashura tapped the hilt of one of her swords. "I'll do the rest."

Despite her best efforts to look stern, a mischievous grin broke out on Imoen's face. "That's more like it." She patted Ashura on the shoulder. "If you're going to be a devious backstabber, you've got to at least include me in your conspiring."

"Deal."

Imoen actually smiled slightly before she turned and hustled up the last few steps and into the yawning light of the keep, and Ashura found herself alone, pondering. Pondering and remembering the silly and elaborate vows the two of them had made one afternoon, under the flowering vines of the Candlekeep gardens. Blood sisters, 'together through thick and thin.'

She shook her head, a little ashamed that _she_ was the one who always seemed to be testing the bonds of that sisterhood, at least lately (there had been that time with Imoen and Ulraunt and the antique vases,) and she resolved to make up the difference in whatever way she could. First though: a nice large meal and a nice long bath was in order.

Looking up to the tavern's doorway, she noticed that a man dressed in a hooded cloak was standing at the top of the stairs, his head tilted down and his eyes fixed on her chest. He continued to stare, and she found her hand shooting to the hilt of her sword, memories of the battle on this very stairway coming back. "Can I help you?" Ashura growled.

The man gave a startled shake of his head, ringlets of long blonde hair spilling out from his cowl. "Oh. Sorry. Was lost in thought."

"Staring at my chest?" Somehow she _hoped_ it was just drunken ogling, but she seemed an odd target for that sort of thing. Her chainmail coat was hardly revealing or formfitting.

"Apologies miss." The man turned and shuffled through the door. "That is some nice armor though," he commented over his shoulder, then vanished.

* * *

After countless days of dusty roads and rough living in the wilderness (especially that horrid night on the stone floor of the Ulcaster ruins,) Xan was very much looking forward to the Friendly Arm's steam baths. It would be good for once to bathe in a setting where Shar-Teel was unlikely to appear out of nowhere, strip, dive into the pond, and immediately begin splashing him and making tedious comments about cold water and male anatomy. Not to mention that with the changing of the seasons even a little splash on the arms and face at a pond or stream had become unpleasant. Lazing in a warm sauna would be an excellent change of pace.

Of course not everyone nearby agreed.

"Bathe in _steam_?" a richly accented voice sounded just behind Xan as the stepped into the long, open hall of the men's baths. There were only a few people milling about in the tubs; off-duty staff by the look of them. "What kind of backwoods madness is this?" Edwin continued to complain. "Nearly as imbecilic as the tribesmen of Raurin, who presume to 'bathe' with sand."

"Come on," Garrick's enthusiastic voice chirped. "It might seem silly, but it's fantastic once you've tried it. You sweat your worries away, and then _bam!_ An invigorating plunge into some ice cold water makes you feel more alive than you ever have before! It's even more of a thrill up north, where everyone goes running through the snow before the big plunge. I remember once the _Troubadours_ stopped in this little village called Hilltop, up in the Silver Marches-"

"Spare me your tedious life's story," Edwin groaned, nose high as he surveyed the hall. Clad in a cloth-wrap at the waist and without his bulky red robes, hood, and jewelry, he was somewhat less intimidating, his frame lanky and stork-like. As Thayvians tended to be, he was bereft of body hair, and almost seeming elfin, though without a trace of the grace or androgynous beauty of the People. And of course, like all red wizards, his shaved head had been decorated with stylized tattoos. Edwin's resembled the grinning, whiskered face of certain breeds of dragon.

There were more tattoos across his upper arms and over his chest; abstract black symbols that seemed more glyph than pictograph. Narrowing his keen eyes, Xan noted that the writing appeared solid, but was actually formed from countless tiny symbols woven together. The nearly microscopic script seemed to be slowly shifting and turning as well, making the tattoos appear alive. It was a form of magic the enchanter was familiar with.

"Direct your lustful gaze elsewhere," Edwin growled.

Ignoring that, Xan peered a moment longer. "If I am not mistaken," he said, "that is a minor protection against heat and cold written upon your chest. A most practical enchantment to place permanently upon yourself, insuring that you are comfortable in diverse climes."

"Bah!" Edwin didn't take to the complement, and his snarling only grew. "Direct your _curious_ gaze elsewhere then. I've no intention of revealing the secrets of Thayvian tattoo-craft to an outsider."

Xan rolled his eyes, biting back a comment about how he had already deduced all there was to know about Edwin's 'craft.' Not to mention if he was to turn a lustful gaze on anyone here it would be the bard, who was lithely muscled and far more-

_ Urm _ . _Yes, probably best to say nothing._ He looked away from a shirtless, grinning Garrick, suddenly self-conscious. And it didn’t help when Garrick casually peeled his smallclothes away, walked over, and patted Xan on the shoulder, his usual, amably-smiling self. _Do not look down. Do_ not _look down._

"These facilities appear to be well equipped," Edwin observed, noting the large hot-water tub and the smaller ones that lined a far wall, along with shelves and tables where oils, salts, brushes and sponges were laid out invitingly. "Where are the showers? I should much prefer that over this steam-bathing nonsense."

"Shower?" Garrick asked, confused. "Like…rain?"

"No, you imbecile." Edwin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "A device to deliver streams of water down upon the bather, through holes in a basket which is attended to by slaves who continuously pour (some use water elementals instead, or mephits, but I much prefer slaves. Ideally the nubile and unclothed sort.)"

Garrick frowned. "Never heard of such a thing."

The red wizard sighed once again. "It is the most thorough and efficient way to clean oneself." A third huff and he threw his hands up. "So of _course_ you western barbarians have not invented it. I suppose I shall see what these 'steam baths' are all about then, though it all sounds dreadfully Rashemi."

Shaking his head slightly, Xan moved on to the smaller chamber on the far side of the great hall, where an old man was stoking the boiler-stove. He gave the servant a nod, then passed through the cedarwood door and into the sauna proper, where a series of hardwood benches rested over slatted boards and under warm, heavy mist. Unraveling his cloth and setting it upon a bench, Xan sat up straight and closed his eyes, slipping into a meditative pose and letting the warmth envelope him like a cloak.

Idly, he hoped that the soothing steam and pleasant cedar aroma of the place would calm Edwin's constantly nattering tongue. Of course that was not the case. As the steam rose and coiled and the boiler sizzled nearby, the Thayvian continued to complain intermittently, all through the steaming and then afterwards when they went to the tubs.

"They do not serve tea in here? Such primitive facilities. In Thay even the lowliest of bathhouses _at least_ serves tea."

"You must scrub yourself? Do they not have servants for that?!"

"Bah! This oil is scented with lavender? Do they think me a woman?!"

And on and on.

Eventually Xan cradled his face in his hands, on the far side of the great tub and trying his best to ignore the red wizard. Garrick (somehow) had kept up his usual good humor. "Finicky fellow isn't he?" the bard asked nearby as he massaged something sudsy into his short brown hair.

"That is an understatement," Xan muttered. "I do not think I have ever met a person who complains so much."

A mischievous look came over Garrick's face and he raised an eyebrow. "Oh really? Never huh?"

Xan frowned. "I don't sound like _that!_ "

Garrick's look was enigmatic.

"Do I?"

* * *

The evening air struck Ashura sharply as she stepped out of the bath hall, cold and crisp, and she found herself reaching up to adjust the cloth she had wrapped about her head. Memories of dashing out to play in the autumn months, underdressed and unprepared, came back to her; father sternly demanding that she get back inside _this instant_ and put on her quilted overshirt, while Winthrop quipped that she was 'too hotblooded to catch her death.'

As a child she had liked that notion (and perhaps taken it a little too seriously,) but she had caught plenty of chills around this time of year, and eventually decided that bundling up wasn't such a bad idea. Still, she had avoided mittens as much as she could. You just can't do anything fun in mittens.

Ashura was prepared for the cooling weather now; dressed in a set of spare clothes while the rest was being laundered by the Friendly Arm staff, and her black coat, long-sleeved shirt and woolen trousers kept her warm enough. She also wore the cloth over her damp hair of course, and her trusty and comfortable raincloak rested on her shoulders, though perhaps a cloak with a hood would be a nice edition before winter set in.

It was a fine luxury –having spare clothes– and none that were threadbare or spotted with holes either. Of course, despite her growing wealth, she couldn't start thinking like a fop with a walk-in closet. There's only so much you can carry.

And for now the linen cloth would keep her from 'catching her death.' At least for the short walk through the little hamlet of the Friendly Arm and up to the warm hearths of the dining hall. At the moment she was waiting on Imoen and Viconia, who had said they would be right out. Glancing back though, she saw no sign of activity in the front hall.

Movement in the dimly lit courtyard caught Ashura's eye, and she turned in time to see a tall figure approach. He was wrapped up in a thick black cloak, and far too near for her liking.

How had he crossed the courtyard so quickly? Had he slipped from the nearby shadows? Ashura's hand instinctively shot to the hilt of her righthand sword.

The stranger's cloak fell back as he raised his open palms in a gesture of peace, revealing puffy purple sleeves and a richly embroidered doublet; clean and neat, with every button in place. The man wore an apologetic look, though recognizing him put Ashura further on edge. It was the man who had been staring at her on the steps earlier. Mr. 'Nice Armor.'

"Apologies," the stranger opened hastily. "You are a guard, correct? You were wearing that thick chainmail coat last time I saw you." Ashura cocked her head and made to answer, but the man kept talking; kept stepping closer. "Could you direct me to the bathhouse? I am unfamiliar with this place and…"

Ashura gave a very slight nod backwards, glaring at the man. Here she was with her armor bundled up and stored in her room. Such a pain to carry the heavy chainmail everywhere, but she suddenly found herself missing that protective coat. "Building behind me. The men's baths is over on the far right."

The stranger nodded curtly, though he didn't immediately move off. "My thanks."

No armor, but Ashura was still wearing her enchanted boots, and the nervous tingle they sent up to her chest tipped her off and got her moving just in time; right as the man in the purple doublet flicked his wrist and something slipped out from one of those puffy sleeves. Ashura's body twisted to the side and there was a swish and a _tock_ , an object flying past her and imbedding itself in the doorframe.

The stranger held a small hand-crossbow now, the sort that fired tiny darts. It almost seemed like a child's toy, though Ashura guessed that the dart had been poisoned, and the one he was swiftly reloading the mechanism with was likely poisoned as well.

With a stomp forward Ashura unleashed her sword and lashed out at the man, but something struck her halfway through the slash and she faltered, her vision filling with scintillating light.

The man was glowing; countless beams of dazzling color snaking and dancing about his silhouette, which suddenly seemed insubstantial. In time with the motion of the lights his form slipped and slithered backwards, out of reach as Ashura just stood and stared, dumbfounded. "Hold still a moment, would you?" the man asked, his voice seeming to come from several places at once as he warped and wavered.

"Nu…" She fought the torpor. Clenched her teeth.

A breath and she spoke again. "No…I…WON'T!" And with that furious shout all of the rainbow patterns snapped together, crisp and clear, and there the assassin stood in the center of the courtyard. The regal purple clothing was gone (perhaps it had been an illusion?) replaced by simple charcoal black, and instead of wavy blonde hair it was now plain and close-cropped.

Ashura was dashing forward now, but a familiar sensation sent up by her boots forced her to doge to the side at the last moment, her sword missing the man as he skittered backwards and fired a second dart. Her lefthand blade launched from its sheath and she tried to overtake the assassin with a surprise slash, but his form seemed to blur and the steel whistled through empty air.

Dancing backwards, the man continued to look ghostly and insubstantial. It was a spell Ashura had seen Eldoth employ in many battles, making him harder to hit. "Thought you'd be easier prey without your armor," the blur that had been a man noted dryly.

Another premonition, and Ashura turned her shoulder just before the crossbow twanged, a third bolt streaking by. "Ah," the assassin concluded, his voice even and clinical. "It's some sort of arrow-dodging magic isn't it? Imparted by an enchanted item."

As the assassin spoke Ashura lunged, but the man's voice never showed any sign of exertion as he slipped away with dazzling speed (a _haste_ spell?) and her blade bit into the wood of a nearby wall.

Before she could yank her sword clear Ashura felt a sharp stab at the back of her arm. She spun and countered, but once again the blur had skipped several paces out of her reach. Hard to tell, but he didn't seem to be holding a knife. Had he stabbed her with one of the darts?

As Ashura raised her blades and advanced she felt a prickling tingle run through her bicep. Another step and that whole arm went heavy, numb fingers still clenching her lefthand sword but hardly feeling its presence.

"Dodging arrows is a nice trick," the assassin taunted. "But there's more than one way to deliver poison. That's Dambrathian sea snail venom pumping through your veins, by the way. Quite deadly."

An attempted lunge and stab from Ashura turned into a woozy lurch, and the clouded form of the assassin strafed in from the right. He patiently danced back when she managed to send a half-assed swing his way. "Your strength is fading fast," he chided. "Even if the poison doesn't kill you outright, you'll be an easy target soon enough."

When Ashura tilted her right arm back and then _hurled_ her sword at him the assassin at least let out a satisfying gasp, though he dodged aside easily enough. As the blade struck the courtyard with an impotent clang, Ashura slammed her free hand against her injured arm, ghostfire flickering across her fingers. Through numbed nerves she felt tendrils of that fire slip into the wound, seeking the poison out; tugging and drawing it from her veins, and when she pulled her hand away it released a cloud of inky black.

The poisoned mist billowed for a heartbeat between her and the assassin, then dissipated and vanished, and as it did Ashura felt strength and fury welling up through her limbs, sure as ever. She gave the assassin a feral grin, and this time when she rushed him she did not wobble or stagger.

The assassin's startled gasp turned into familiar words: " _Umbrial visitas quail!_ " and then the blurred man vanished. Ashura's lefthand sword simply sliced through empty air, and she whirled around, her sword spinning and her voice snarling.

From a nearby doorway another voice replied to the assassin's with arcane words. " _Tiras krali vistus!_ " Xan shouted –no moonblade and wrapped in only a cloth– unleashing a wave of white light that surged across the courtyard. The wave was displaced by a dark form, and for a moment that form was covered in sparks, then with a _pop_ they fell away and revealed the assassin, no longer invisible or even blurred.

Imoen had emerged from the bathhouse as well, fully dressed and low to the ground, rushing forward with a dagger drawn. The moment Ashura spied her, however, the assassin followed her gaze and caught on, spinning and aiming his crossbow at Imoen.

_ Ack! Gave her away! _

Thankfully Imoen managed to roll to the side and the bolt whistled past her, and as it did Ashura advanced. There were others entering the courtyard as well: guards armed with heavy crossbows and swords.

The assassin took the scene in with a glance and stepped backwards, towards a nearby wall. "Guess I'll need stronger poison," Ashura heard him mutter as he shot her a glare, then he began to chant in a lower voice. With a flash something that looked like the surface of a distorted mirror opened up just behind him, then he took one more step backwards and the portal swallowed him whole, winking out of existence less than a heartbeat later.

The guards with the crossbows spread out and pivoted, eyes searching for any sign of the man, and their leader's gaze settled on Ashura. The woman's close-cropped hair the crisscross of scars on her face seemed familiar, and when she spoke Ashura remembered her voice.

"You!" Captain Joia Ruthwhir snarled, pointing with her longsword. "Is this some sort of Harper business again? I won't tolerate any more of it! _One_ assassination attempt and the murder on my grounds was more than enough!"

"Urm, it's not…well…" Ashura sighed and sheathed her blade, combing back her damp hair and wondering where she'd lost the towel. _We're about to get kicked out of another inn aren't we?_ And she'd miss the Friendly Arm especially; the only cozy place to sleep for leagues. "Sorry," she stated lamely, hands raised.

"Hey now!" Imoen piped up. "It's not her fault she has assassins after her."

Captain Ruthwhir glanced over at the second girl and sighed again, one hand rubbing her face. "The both of you. Of course. Do you at _least_ know why you were just attacked by an assassin in the middle of my courtyard _this time_?"

"Afraid not ma'am," Imoen admitted sheepishly. "And hey! We've stayed here a couple of times _without_ any mysterious assassin attacks! I mean, how were we to know?"

"It is true," Xan put in, rubbing his hands together and hunching his thin shoulders against the cold. "We have made a few enemies though, helping to free up the iron trade on the Coast, but why bounty hunters continue to target her specifically remains a mystery. One we must investigate, it seems." As the elf spoke Imoen slipped in beside him, wrapping her violet cloak around his shoulders.

The captain looked Xan up and down. "That cloak's not grey, but I understand you are…"

"A Greycloak. Yes. And I vouch for her being an innocent victim, in this case." He put a lot of emphasis on the last part of the sentence.

Joia snorted. "Well, if you truly are the victim here –again– I suppose it would be rude to just toss you out on your ass." She sighed. "Guess we should take some security precautions. And…"

"We'll be gone in the morning," Ashura offered with a raised hand.

"Good."

Later that evening Xan, Edwin and Viconia put their heads together about warding the room Ashura would be staying in, and Shar-Teel volunteered to take the second bed, her weapons close by. Being Shar-Teel, she naturally had to stress that there'd be 'no rutting' while she was around. Hardly something that would have crossed Ashura's mind with the assassin still out there, but Garrick was a reassuring presence next to her, once they had all settled in.

* * *

The next day around midafternoon the party called a halt to water their horses and stretch their legs by a forest stream that flowed into the lakes of Peldvale. As usual, during these little stops, some people disappeared into the nearby trees and bushes in little shifts while the rest tended to the horses and waited, saddlebags rustling as some of them searched for snacks.

Skie busied herself with a hand mirror and rosewood hairbrush, and Shar-Teel found a convenient rock to sit on and lay her sword out in her lap, inspecting the blade with a critical eye. Edwin simply stood by the roadside, tall and straight and scowling off towards the south, his hands hidden beneath his robes and his hood thrown back, dragon tattoo grinning proudly above his jeweled circlet. At the edge of the road Ashura just stretched a bit, trying to be watchful until the people who had gone off returned.

Yet somehow none of them noticed the bearded little man swaying atop an old grey donkey. At least they didn't until he was nearly in their midst and had called attention to himself by muttering something about 'the Coastway Road' and 'foolishness.'

Shar-Teel was up and pointing her sword at him immediately, about a half-step away from running him through. "There's no greater foolishness than trying to sneak up on me, little man!" she snarled.

Rather than showing fear, the little guy just gave her an annoyed frown. "It's not sneaking if the other party is just too dimwitted to notice someone," he countered in a snide voice that was gratingly high-pitched. He sounded more youthful than his long white beard and bushy eyebrows would suggest.

_ A gnome _ , Ashura realized. And with gnomes age was sometimes hard to discern, since their faces were always a little gnarled and their hair color varied wildly. Hells, for all she knew this guy could have been born with white hair. He wore a stovepipe hat atop his head, a pair of spectacles on his bulbous nose, and though he seemed to be rather round it was hard to tell with all the coats he was swaddled in.

Edwin had been as startled as the rest of them, his hand instinctively going to the pocked where he kept the dispelling wand, but the imperious look was coming back to him. "True," the red wizard agreed with the gnome, "but I'm guessing the illusions that you used to muffle your steps and hide your presence helped as well.

"Those can be useful, yes." The gnome bobbed his head. "Even if I am a _mental_ giant, I must admit that I'm slightly deficient in the brawn department, and there are big, hungry, dangerous things out here on the road. But then I noticed your little party and thought you might be worth a word or two."

"Why?" Ashura simply asked.

"Well," the nasal voice of the gnome droned on, sounding a bit like one of the Readers of Candlekeep delivering lecture, "we've established that the road is full of perils, and we all seem to be traveling upon it." He raised a finger and wagged it about. "It's only logical that you would welcome a master of sorcery and the divine mysteries such as myself, out here away from civilization. And I've deigned you worthy of assistance."

"Uh…" Ashura grumbled, trying to determine if this was some sort of elaborate con or just straight-forward obnoxiousness.

"So what direction are you heading?" The gnome went on. "North? South? East? West?"

"West," Edwin snapped before Ashura or the others could speak.

"What a coincidence," the gnome responded immediately. "The fates are with us, for I'm heading west as well!"

"Really?" Edwin pointed. "You're heading across that creek, and into those woods beyond? Right into the dense midsection of the Wood of Sharp Teeth?"

The gnome huffed. "Well, I don't think my elaborate and –might I add– brilliant traveling plans are…are…" Edwin's satisfied smirk just grew with every stammer.

"We're going north along the Coastway, up to Baldur's Gate," Imoen announced as she shrugged her way through some saplings and onto the highway. "Should make the city by tomorrow. And if you really want to tag along, Mr. Gnome, so you don't get eaten by gibberlings or ankegs or zombies, I don't see the harm in it."

Edwin just let out a haughty snort at that.

"Bah!" Shar-Teel growled, still pointing with her sword. "I say we just kill him and be done with it."

"You can't just murder people because they annoy you," Imoen protested with a shake of her head.

"I can't?"

"Nope!"

* * *

After a few hours of travel alongside the gnome and his donkey Ashura began to think that perhaps there was some 'harm' to the little guy tagging along after all. At least to her ears. The gnome –whose name was Quayle– seemed to be locked in a running competition with Edwin to determine who could work the most condescension into every phrase, and he was completely incapable of ever shutting the Hells up. Worst of all the gnome and red wizard seemed to be embroiled in an hours-long, never ceasing argument over the value of gnomish illusions.

"Why, bolstered by the power of Baravar Cloakshadow," Quayle's voice droned on, "there is no form of wool I could not pull over the eyes of one of you big, clumsy oafs! I could trap those who threaten gnomekind in a blissful dream from which they would have no desire to wake, or surround my enemies with so much upside-down confusion that they would mistake their own heads for their tuckuses. How can primitive fireball-tossing compete with such superbly crafted magic?"

"How about I toss a fireball your way and we find out?" Edwin suggested. "(Or better yet an abishai. Let us pit your gossamer-thin illusions against the jaws of a devil and see which survives.)"

"The Thayvian has a bit of a point," Imoen interjected, prodding her horse so that he slipped between Edwin's and the donkey. "Just a teeny bit of one."

"I hardly see it," Quayle huffed.

"I'm a bit of an illusionist myself," Imoen went on, "and I'm kinda sad that you keep talking up this magic of yours but we haven't gotten a proper demonstration." She quickly added: "And I don't mean entrapping dreams or head-and-tuckus-rearrangement! (Wouldn't that technically be transmutation anyways?) How 'bout something entertaining instead?"

Quayle scoffed. "What do you take me for? Some sort of circus performer? Am I to do flips for your amusement as well?"

"You might make more friends that way," Imoen suggested, holding an open palm out. "Ya know, if you really are a master illusionist you could be a big hit in The Wide." Her next words were a short incantation, and a flash of light blossomed on her palm, rising into the air before her; a formless blob that wavered and wobbled for the moment. "With that brilliant imagination of yours I'm sure ya could come up with all sorts of stories, and illustrate them with illusions! That's always entertaining."

The blob stretched and resolved into something solid: a miniature wooden caravel that sailed through the air just above her, a hint of surf and foam surging about its hull. Out of the cabin a tiny figure strolled, her boots making a clomping sound upon the deck and the feather in her wide-brimmed hat waving in the breeze. "Like brave Selia Fairsail here!" Imoen went on. "Captain of the _Stormrunner_ , and star of many a rollicking, swashbuckling tale!"

Quayle rolled his eyes, and with a wave of his hand he called up a great starburst that appeared above the flying ship. The flames swiftly coalesced into a great red wyrm, to scale with the illusory vessel and swooping down fast. The miniature swashbuckler on the deck looked up, startled, and had no time to react before the dragon swept her up in its jaws and chomped, the little illusionary person falling apart in a burst of glittering sparks rather than gore.

Instead of acting annoyed, Imoen actually clapped her hands with delight. "Ah ha! An illusion-battle it is then!" The flying ship broke up into several unsteady pieces, which reformed into four great griffons, mounted by knights in baroque armor. "That dragon looks fearsome, but how will it fair against these dragon hunters?!"

The war of miniaturized illusions escalated from there, and despite his huffy attitude Quayle seemed to start enjoying himself. The dragon was slain by the griffon-rider's lances, but burst into a swarm of howling demons. Imoen answered that with a battalion of righteous angels, but they became embarrassed and flummoxed when the demons turned into nude, cavorting nymphs.

The nymphs were inexplicably bested by a pack of fat (yet strangely suave and charming,) male goblins, who rapidly pantomimed wooing them and then breaking their hearts. Next, the goblins became nixies, which were impaled on the horns of evil unicorns, which in turn became great flying fish that swam though a sea of stars and galaxies. By this point the 'battle' had become an increasingly ridiculous collaboration between Imoen and the gnome, who laughed as they conspired to create stranger and stranger vistas in the air above them.

It annoyed some of the horses, who whinnied and bucked slightly from time to time, but at least it kept those two occupied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edwin's banters in Baldur's Gate 2 where he shamelessly hits on Viconia and Mazzy and then gets brutally shot down partly inspired this chapter. I still need to figure out a way to work the phrase 'erotic onslaught' in somewhere.
> 
> And we'll eventually find out who the mysterious assassin is. Or maybe it's obvious? I'm never sure when it comes to my clumsy attempts at clues and foreshadowing.
> 
> And just in case anyone's worried: No, Quayle is not going to become a regular member of the party. I've had a lot of fun trying to make difficult and underused characters interesting, but Quayle is probably best in very small doses.


	60. One More Heist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the theme music from Oceans 11 starts to play

_ "No one's ever clearly explained to me why so many wizards insist on living in towers. I'd make a joke about them overcompensating for something, but many of the lady wizards I've met seem to love their towers too." _ –Ribald Barterman _, Old Ribald's Guide to Dungeoneering_

* * *

The walls and towers of the city and the Wyrm's Crossing were much as Ashura remembered them from the month before, though they were bustling with a lot more activity now. Fist soldiers swarmed like ants across the walkways and the battlements; spears polished to gleam bright in the morning sun, and the eyes of the sentries on the bridge towers were sharp and wary. The show of force and the scrutiny put Ashura on edge. _Five dead city guard left in an alleyway._ Still, there had been no indication that the Fist had connected her with that, or with the 'kidnapping' of a certain heiress.

And Skie was well disguised at least.

Thanks to one of Xan's spells the heir to House Silvershield now sported wavy, carrot-colored hair and prominent freckles, along with the coarse and crooked features of a peasant girl. When she had first looked at her newly transformed face in the mirror Skie had let out a stifled giggle and then –with Imoen's prompting and guidance– really gotten into the part. Now everything that came out of her mouth was crude, slightly slurred, and thick with an exaggerated take on the accent of the city's lower classes. The debutant seemed to take especial delight in swearing like a sailor.

Ashura felt eyes heavy upon them as their horses trotted beneath one of the bridge's gates and on to the next, but no words were spoken or questions asked, and even Viconia just seemed to receive the usual stares. Between the drow's formless cloak and cowl, skin that was a bit more grey than charcoal, and eyes that were violet rather than the typical red, people rarely seemed to guess her true identity. More likely they simply thought her an exotic woman from the Shining Lands or distant Zakhara.

In silence they rounded the bend beyond the bridge and passed through the yawning gates of the city, where they were swallowed up by the bustling crowd. Ashura was grateful not to spot any Elminster impersonators this morning, and she was _extremely_ grateful to Imoen (all gods high and low bless her!) when the donkey and its annoying owner broke off and began to head up a northwestern street.

On the ride to the city Imoen had worked steadily on the gnome, convincing him that he could make a fortune entertaining people in The Wide with his illusions. Personally, Ashura figured he was more likely to get stoned by an angry mob, but she was just happy to see him go.

In order to weave through the heavy foot traffic they dismounted from their horses and led them forward, and they had not gone far when the wall of a storefront caught Ashura's eye, plastered heavy with posters, advertisements and broadsheets. One paper in particular drew her over; dominated by a woodcut likeness that seemed at first glance oddly familiar, though when she stepped closer and inspected it she couldn't quite put a finger on _why._

It was the portrait of an impeccably dressed man, standing proud and straight, his features square and blunt, with a thick neck and broad shoulders that implied a great deal of muscle beneath his jacket. The man's head was completely bald, and sported some sort of glyph-like tattoo, and his jaw was framed by a crescent-shaped goatee, upper lip shaved. Hard to tell in black-and-white, but the likeness was shaded in a manner that implied the dark skin-tone of someone from Turmish or the Shining South.

Just an artist's rendering -and she didn't recognize the tattoo at all- but there was definitely something familiar about the man. The distinctive beard perhaps? Ashura's eyes drifted down to the caption beneath the portrait, and widened slightly. The headline read: _Sarevok Anchev Gifts City with Untainted Arms and Armor_ , the smaller print beneath going into detail about how the 'kindly heir to House Anchev' was voluntarily taking great losses to protect the city from the 'Amnish threat.'

"Anchev," Ashura muttered. "Wasn't that the name of..?"

"The man Yeslick claimed was behind the slaver operation in the Cloakwood?" Xan suggested, reading over her shoulder. "Rieltar Anchev, yes. He is the leader of a branch of the Iron Throne merchant house. I had assumed they would be disgraced and run out of the city by now, but this reads as just the opposite. Most disturbing."

Ashura frowned at the broadsheet. "There's no mention of a Rieltar here. Just lots of praise for this Sarevok fellow."

"Well uv'course," Skie stated casually, voice thick with her affected accent. "Always like that in the rags."

"Oh?"

"Yep." She gave Ashura a puzzled, _'Don't-you-keep-up-with-local-gossip?'_ look, then shrugged and poked a finger at the picture of Sarevok. "Just look'it 'em. A right handsome git iddent'e? Charmin' in person too, so he's the face o' the operation." She broke character, voice lowering and slipping into its usual cadence. "Everybody says that Rieltar runs things in the Iron Throne, but his son's the one you see at parties and public appearances. I've met him a few times. He has this real deep voice and take-charge attitude." A little laugh.

"Uh huh," Ashura murmured. Then she shrugged and turned away, pulling at her horse once more. Definitely a familiar face, but where had she seen it?

"I will have to speak with Commander Scar on this," Xan sighed. "He assured me that the Iron Throne would be dealt with."

Ashura frowned, remembering the Cloakwood; the raid and the sacrifices and the flood, the ruined plans of bandits and conspirators. Free and grateful slaves too. Surely that had meant something? Especially to the local authorities. And she had been relieved that it was all in someone else's hands after that.

But now Xan had that firm-but-resigned look that she had seen on his face a few times before. _Duty and obligation. What a pain in the ass._ Speaking of which.

She glanced over at Skie once again. "You said as soon as we entered the Gate, right?" She asked. "You still...?"

Skie's eyes went to the ground and she nodded, taking a deep breath. "Yeah, I'm sure," she said as she straightened up, the resolved tone in her voice not quite matching her goofy, illusionary face.

* * *

Carts and carriages rumbled down Bloomridge Street, competing with the relentless afternoon foot traffic; clusters of women carrying parasols and men lugging boxes and baskets while old gentlemen clicked their canes against the street and fleet-footed children dodged round them, parchment packages under the arms of the scampy little messengers. The buildings here were clean and tall and cramped in close, and above it all towered the stone walls of the grand estate, topped with sharp black ironwork. Up there –gleaming just above the broad gate and sharp portcullis– was the sigil of House Silvershield, round and green and edged with bronze; the motif of a golden key within.

A joke people never grew tired of asking at parties: 'Shouldn't your coat of arms be a silver shield?'

As she looked up at the placard, red hair and freckles now dispelled, Skie tried to stand up straight and proud, just as she had told herself she would over these past few days. Yet she found herself hugging her arms, the cloak of _nondetection_ bundled tight around her. The cloak Eldoth had instructed her to steal.

After a long, steadying breath Skie reached up the where the laces were tied, undoing them with slow, deliberation motions. Then she shrugged the cloak off and into her hand.

Imoen let out a faint sigh, standing next to her. "You sure you don't wanna put it off just a bit longer?" she asked. "Have one last big night of partying before you check into House Stuffington?"

"Yeah," Garrick agreed. "We should have a party! I'm not sure if any of us knows how to bake a cake, but maybe we could find some chefs?" He and Ashura had also come to see Skie off.

"And yer always talkin' 'bout all the secret hotspots in the city," Imoen added. "You could show us how a debutante parties here in the Gate!"

Skie forced a smile, thinking of the dance clubs in the Undercellars and the seedy taverns. There wasn't a one that she hadn't toured with Eldoth, laughing at his jokes (he so loved to make fun of the partygoers,) and resting against his thick, steady arm. She cringed, no desire to go back to where those memories dwelt. "I'd best do this now," she told them. "While I've got the courage to face my father."

"Aw. Was hoping you'd at least teach me how to do the Mask Dance."

That brought out a genuine chuckle, and Skie turned to give Imoen an impish smirk. "I don't think there's a wrong way to do it, so long as the dancers are _only_ wearing masks. If you really want there's a club in the Undercellars…"

Imoen waved a hand dismissively. "Doubt I could convince Xan to join in _that._ "

"I can't imagine," Skie agreed. Silence fell over them for a moment, and eventually she turned towards the gate and straightened up. "I think the party's over for me though." Another little laugh. "Father will have all sorts of words I'm sure, about the 'chains of duty' that all who wish to rule are bound with. 'Little one, even I am more powerless things than you imagine.'" She let out of a breath. "There'll probably be actual chains too."

"But you won't take that right?" Imoen insisted. "Just like you said. You'll hold your chin up, put on an imperious air, and yer gonna tell 'em that you've seen the outside world, yer the heir to House Silvershield, and damnit, Entar's at least gonna show you how the house is run so you won't get bored out of yer mind and run away again!"

Skie gave her a little smile and nodded. They had discussed this a few times over the journey, trying to convince Imoen (and Skie herself) that going back home was a good idea. And she _was_ going to tell her father exactly that, though truth be told the main reason that she was going back was just that she was very, very tired. Her feet no longer hurt from the long walks, but still; the past month had been overwhelming.

There was a rustling of paper as Imoen pulled out a rolled-up scroll, sealed with a grey ribbon. "And here! Before I forget. Just in case." Skie cocked her head quizzically as she took it, and Imoen elaborated. "It'll unlock any non-metaphorical chains. Even with mechanical gnome locks. You just have to read it the way that we practiced."

Skie tapped her vest. "But I already have the one that Xan-"

"I know, but I scribed you a spare last night. Just in case. And put wrapped it in a grey ribbon. Xan's persnickety 'bout that. Scrolls have to be color-coded."

Skie nodded. "Well, thank you. Hopefully I won't need to use them, but it's very sweet." With her other hand she offered Imoen her cloak. "Here. I won't be hiding anymore, and I'm sure you can make good use of this."

"Just hide the scrolls well," Imoen insisted as she accepted the gift. "I don't know if your house guards and servants would actually have the nerve to _search_ you, or how that works in proper society even, but…"

"Don't worry." With a flick of her wrist Skie made the rolled-up paper vanish. "They won't find them. And if they _really_ try, there's always that reverse-pickpocketing trick you taught me."

Imoen smiled, nodded, and then pressed her lips together pensively. A silent moment followed, and then she flung herself forward and wrapped Skie in a tight bear hug that nearly overbalanced them both. "I'm gonna miss youuuuuuuu!" she proclaimed, cheek nuzzled against Skie's shoulder.

Eyes a little cloudy, Skie patted her friend. "I'll miss you too Immy."

"We'll all miss you," Garrick agreed with one of his bashful smiles, and Ashura nodded beside him. Eventually Skie managed to disengage herself from Imoen, slipping forward to envelope Garrick in a big hug of her own.

Lastly Skie turned to Ashura, who had been watching in silence, arms crossed at her chest. They uncrossed and the two of them hugged, a little cautious of the heavy chainmail coat. "Good luck," Ashura said as she patted her friend on the arm. Then she stepped back. "Try to keep practicing your swordwork. You never know when you'll need it."

"I'll try," Skie replied, smiling. Then there was little else to do but turn towards the stone gate and the portcullis, the white façade of the estate peeking out from beyond.

No longer hooded, her posture straight and her head high, Skie forced herself to march directly for the yawning gate, and from there she went along the pebble pathway between the hedges and the cherry trees. When she felt her footsteps slowing and feared that she might falter, her hand found its way to the hilt of her short sword and gripped it.

With that sword she had fought kobolds, undead monstrosities, a demon, bandits, basilisks, survived the betrayal of the man she thought had loved her, and even killed a hellhound. A shame her father would probably order the sword confiscated immediately, but it didn't matter. For now it reminded her that she had faced and survived so much this past month; terrors and wonders.

Compared to all that facing her parents would be easy.

Without hesitation Skie Silvershield reached forward, found the polished brass knocker, and wrapped upon the door of her family estate.

* * *

Ashura couldn't help but turn from the tower and laugh, throwing a series of derisive, disbelieving cackles Edwin's way and shaking her head a few times for good measure.

"I am so pleased that I can amuse you," the red wizard droned in response once the laughter had died down.

"Yup," Imoen agreed from beside him. "Just learn to juggle and sing, and then maybe you can replace Garrick!"

Ashura just shook her head absently, eyes back on the red-and-blue tiered tower before them. It stood taller than the other nearby buildings, the ducal palace included. "'A simple task,' you said. "'We just need to procure a book from a house in Baldur's Gate.'"

"Indeed," Edwin replied with a humorless nod, gesturing. "That is a house. We're in the city of Baldur's Gate. And I have been informed that there's a well-stocked library on the top floor."

Ashura rolled her eyes. "That's a bloody _wizard's tower_. Probably warded to the Nine fucking Hells and back, and brimming with traps and magical constructs."

"True enough," Edwin admitted offhandedly. "Ramazith is a conjurer like myself, and supposedly he keeps a wide menagerie of summoned creatures on each floor of the tower. But you have more than sufficient forces to storm the place and deal with every layer of protection. Or was your pet bard lying when he told the story of how you defeated the mage Davaeorn in his own secured layer?"

Ashura shook her head. "We _could_ do that, and yeah, we could win. But storming someone's home right here next to the ducal palace…" With that her head shook even harder. "I can't think of a better way to call down the full wrath of the Flaming Fist. Maybe burning down an orphanage?"

"A shame," Edwin muttered. "Your murderous rampages are so entertaining to watch. Of course subtlety is an option, as unsuited as you are for it. (Though I would prefer fireballs, hellhounds and swords. And it's not as if the law enforcers of this pisspot little town concern me.)"

"Hm." Ashura turned and gave Imoen a quizzical look. "Ims, do you think this tower could be…"

"Burglarized?" Imoen smirked. "Well sure. I cracked the Hall of Wonders didn't I?" She mock-glared, and a teasing tone entered her voice. "Though I'm not sure why _I'm_ being dragged into this mess. You made the deal with Mr. Redbritches here. Why do I gotta do the heisting?"

"Because you love me?" Ashura suggested.

"Pish!" Imoen boxed Ashura on the shoulder lightly, chainmail clinking. "Suppose I do though."

"And you love a challenge?"

"True enough." Imoen rubbed her hands together, appraising the tower. After a time she nodded to herself and clapped. "A real shame Skie just went home, what with this being the perfect opportunity to put the old gang back together for one more heist!"

* * *

Plucky harp music rang from the taproom below, and as Ashura descended the stairs -her gear now securer in an upper room of the inn- a grin couldn't help but creep across her face. She had guessed the source of the tune correctly; Garrick sat on a stool near the far wall, head bowed and eyes closed as he strummed away. It was one of his nameless little ditties, fast but brittle at first, until the bass notes swung in and got some of the patrons clapping along, their laughter muffled a bit by the thick carpeting and wall-hangings.

Ashura walked along slowly, swishing a hand in time with the music, and when she commandeered a stool next to the bard she instantly draped an arm over his shoulder and planted a kiss on his cheek, careful and gentle, so he didn't miss a note. When the tune finally died down they exchanged a smile. "I know I tease you sometimes about your attempts at poetry," she began.

"Attempts?" He chuckled.

"Attempts. But you really do make beautiful music. Don't ever stop."

"Just wish I could come up with some good words to go to most of the songs."

"Bah! No need. Words are overrated anyway." To prove her point she leaned back on her stool, propped herself against the table, and didn't say anything further.

Of course, Garrick being Garrick, he had to keep talking. "You might be right. But the songs bards get remembered for all tend to have catchy lyrics. It's nice when they tell a good story too."

"You really care about being remembered?"

"Well sure! Or…at least a story or two. They talked about that a lot at the academy. 'Contributing to the cannon.'"

"And that's more important than getting people laughing and dancing in the here and now?" She shrugged. "Personally, I just like how you do that."

"Guess it would be nice to do both." He chuckled. "Maybe I'm being silly."

"Yep." A little pause, and then she gently messed with his short-cropped hair. "A big fat ego doesn't suit you. Who cares if they sing your lyrics about 'summer's last glint' or whatever a hundred years from now?" The lyric was from one of his half-finished songs. "You had these people clapping along. Might even be able to get them dancing. Of course a rhythm section would probably help with that."

He grinned mischievously at her. "I should teach you to play an instrument."

She gave him a skeptical look. "Me? I doubt-"

"You're so good at beating on most things. Why not drums?"

Ashura couldn't help but laugh. "Flatterer."

They had settled into a cozy and richly furnished inn called the Three Old Kegs, a place where well-off patrons dozed or drank in overstuffed chairs beneath walls hung heavy with trophies, epic paintings and bookcases. Imoen and Xan were sitting at a small table of their own, both reading from a pile of papers in front of them, and Viconia and Edwin had taken up a spot in a quiet corner, where the Thayan waved his hands about dramatically, apparently trying to entertain the drow with some silly story. For her part Viconia just watched him with cold, narrow eyes, a fingertip swirling about the rim of her winecup.

Shar-Teel was at the bar, a cup of wine sloshing around in her hand as she leaned in close to some foppish, spindly young man dressed in ruffled silks. A shove sent the guy tumbling off his barstool, though he landed on wobbling feet, and for a moment Ashura assumed a fight was about to break out. Then the fop laughed, turned around, and another shove from Shar-Teel sent him stumbling towards the stairs. She followed swiftly, pouncing and draping an arm over his shoulder, crushing him to her as they wound up the flight of steps.

Eyebrows high, Ashura watched them disappear, and then shook her head. "Did I just see what I think I did?"

Garrick chuckled. "Every _once_ in a while she seems to find a man who suits her…particular tastes." He bit his lower lip. "When the crowd isn't all rowdy thugs and sailors she's trying to beat up, that is."

"And I thought men were all just 'pathetic.'"

* * *

Crumpling the corners of the broadsheet before him, Xan let out a long sigh. "This is not good at all," he lamented, setting the ragged parchment down with the other leaves they had collected from the street and piled up on their tavern table. The outdated pamphlets and broadsheets told the (often highly embellished) story of what had been happening in the city over the past month or two.

"I know!" Imoen commiserated from behind the long sheet she had been reading. "Drizzt and Cattie Brie just _almost_ kissed, but then didn't for like, the umpteenth time!" She waved the paper –an illustrated adventure serial– around in front of her. "I mean come on! We all know it's going to happen! It's gotten _way_ beyond drawing out the whole _'will they or won't they?'_ thing at this point."

"I was more referring to _real_ concerns," Xan pushed back in a dry voice.

"What? You don't think Drizzt is real?" Imoen tapped her broadsheet. "I mean, some of this stuff is a little outlandish, I'll grant you, but look! It says _'Based on True Events'_ right here in big blocky letters."

"Uh huh," Xan muttered, not sounding the least convinced.

"Hrmph. So what were you hemming and hawing about then?"

Xan lifted his own paper and read the headline out loud: " _'Amnish Plot to Taint Iron Foiled by Commander Scar.'_ " He cleared his throat. "This…rather flowery story implies that Scar himself led the raid on the Cloakwood Mines, 'with the assistance of several freelance adventurers' –I suppose that would be us– and uncovered a plot to 'steal the only untainted iron in the region out from under our noses.' In addition to defeating the bandits who had been plaguing the region. Apparently he's been a very busy man. _Some_ of the details here are similar to reality, although instead of a Luskan mage named Davaeorn they claim that the mastermind behind everything in both the Sharp Teeth and the Cloakwood was an Amnish officer named 'Corzon Carlez D'Roach.'"

Imoen giggled. "Bet he has a wicked moustache."

Setting the broadsheet down, Xan shook his head. "Scar seemed honorable and honest in my dealings with him."

"Well, that's just some sensationalist rag," Imoen pointed out. "Maybe the Fist really has been investigating the Iron Throne."

"True," Xan admitted, "though it is disturbing that they would allow this to be displayed in the streets. Amn." He shook his head. "I shall have to speak with Scar."

"The investigations never end, huh?"

"In my experience? No. There are always loose ends. Though this," he waved at the pile of papers, "seems a great deal more than that."

"Well, as soon as we're done with my little H-word in the T-word I'll do whatever I can ta help you!"

Once again Xan sighed. "I understand the _necessity_ of sometimes breaking and entering," he droned. "The investigator's trade is quite similar to a thief's, in all honesty. But I sometimes find your unbridled _enthusiasm_ for petty larceny a little disturbing."

"Aww. But I only steal from bad people."

"And you know that this Ramazith is a 'bad person?'"

"Yup! Most definitely. I asked around, and Halbazzer Drin says that he used to work as a guild mage for the Shadow Thieves, and that he deals in really nasty sorts of enchanted items and spell components. Unicorn's blood and substances from the abyss and formulas from the _Book of Vile Darkness_! Real nasty stuff."

Xan rolled skeptical eyes. "And you are sure Drin was not simply talking down a competitor because..?"

"Oh pish! Drin's an honest fellow. And Black Lily told me even worse! She said that Ramazith destroyed an entire pub a little while back. Everyone saw him arguing with the bartender about some money the man owed him, then right after Ramazith stormed out all these green slimes started swarming up from the floor and ate the bartender and half the customers!"

Xan grimaced. "Disturbing if true. I'm beginning to think that what passes for law enforcement in this city is completely useless." He leaned forward and looked Imoen in the eye. "I suppose I shall stay _nearby_ when you go on this ill-advised adventure, in case you need rescuing from slimes or other dangers. We have the mirrors."

"Aww. But I could use you on the actual hei- urm…H-Word. Yer illusions and mind-fuckery would help a lot more than Edwin's fireballs and hellhounds."

Xan shook his head slightly. "Better that someone stays a little ways back. After all, you may need bailing out of prison when the inevitable occurs."

"Pish _and_ posh! I haven't been caught yet."

* * *

The next morning found Imoen on the rooftop of the Three Old Kegs, laying on her belly with her chin over the edge and her eyes fixed on the pagoda-style tower as she weighed her options. There was only the slightest slant to the roof, but Edwin shifted about uncomfortably beside her, sitting in an ungainly position and peering at the tower as well.

"Plenty of windows to slip through," Imoen observed.

The red wizard shook his head immediately. "They are all thoroughly warded. And mostly from the inside."

"And you can't take care of that?"

He huffed. "Of course I can dispel wards! What manner of amateur hedgemage do you take me for? Unfortunately it cannot be done without setting off alarms and alerting Ramazith. In which case we may as well dispense with stealth and take the direct approach."

Imoen chuckled to herself. She was versed enough in magic tricks and countermeasures to know that there are ways to bypass alarm spells, but of course Edwin would conflate _'I cannot do something'_ with _'It cannot be done.'_ Not to mention that if she could just get inside the tower and close to the glyphs with her thieves' tools…

"And you said that you've never actually met this Ramazith fellow, right?"

"No, though I assure you my information about the many useful objects in his study is _quite_ accurate. The book will be there, just as I described. Along with many other rare and expensive tomes, which I encourage you to-"

"But I mean," Imoen went on, rolling on her back so her hair dangled off the roof and she could gesture at the wizard with her hands, "he doesn't know you from Szass Tam right?"

Edwin stroked his chin. "Ah. I think I see where your little monkey-mind is going with this. He does not know me, which could impart an element of surprise. We could enter the tower on some pretense, lull him somehow (perhaps you could attempt to seduce him?) And then the fireballs will begin to fly."

"Urm…close, but not exactly what I had in mind. You remember that spell you cast on Ashura that made her a giant?"

"Of course. A simple, piddling transmutation."

"Well, can you cast the reverse?"

* * *

Once the sun had disappeared behind the walls of the city they made good on Imoen's plan, proceeding through the streets with a haughty red wizard of Thay in the lead and Ashura and Garrick in step behind him. The pair carried a bulky iron-framed chest between them, hands gripping the handles at the front and the back, and as they went the greengrocers and day laborers they passed on the street gave them suspicious looks. Edwin ignored that of course, nose high in the air.

"Once this annoying business is concluded," the red wizard announced over his shoulder, "I could offer you permanent employment doing just this sort of thing."

Ashura snorted. "Carrying your luggage? That's…tempting."

Edwin shook his head at the sarcasm. "We typically use aerial servants and other magics for heavy loads, so you would rarely need to stoop to such. I speak more of work as an esteemed and well-kept servant of House Odesseiron. We are the ruling family of the tharch of Surthay, you know. (Of course my branch of the family is ill-favored by my uncle, the tharchion, but best not to mention that.)"

He went on as if no one could hear his obvious mutterings. "It would be a life of leisure for the most part, punctuated by a few simple tasks here and there, such as giving guests intimidating glares, a little luggage carrying, and general bodyguarding (and bedwarming.)"

The chest rattled slightly as Garrick seemed to fumble with his grip. Ashura turned and tried her best to shoot the bard a _'Really now?'_ look. "You make it all sound so appealing, Edwin," she said in a mocking tone. "'Come back with me to my nation of slavers, where I can give you work as my concubine.' Every girl's dream, surely."

The crate straightened a bit and Garrick snickered. "Yeah. For someone who styles himself a businessman you really need to work on your sales pitches."

"Bah!" Edwin puffed. "I _style_ myself a master of the arcane arts, as well as a crafter of enchanted paraphernalia powerful, subtle, and exquisitely beyond anything found in these dreary lands. Were I dealing with intelligent people my wares would sell themselves. Not to mention that you obviously have no clue of the extent of Thayvian luxury compared to this," he gestured, "cesspit!"

"Well tell us about it," Garrick offered. "Come on. She might not be interested, but maybe I want to hire on as a servant."

"He does make a fine concubine," Ashura added. "I can attest to that."

Edwin let out an annoyed sigh. "The palace in Surthay already boasts several winged monkeys from Estagund that serve as entertainment. I do not believe it needs another."

Ramazith's tower loomed over them now, and the three of them slowed, then stopped. After a pause, a deep breath, and a moment preening and smoothing out his robes, Edwin approached the door and gave it a few careful knocks.

There was a long pause, but eventually something clicked and the door creaked inward. There appeared to be no one on the other side to greet them, but after another exaggerated period a disembodied voice echoed through the foyer.

"Ah, the Thayvian merchant," it observed in an amused tone. "Do come in. But wipe your feet, of course."

With that Edwin marched across the threshold, and his 'servants' followed, lugging the bulky chest. They paused in the little mudbrick room to do as the voice had instructed before passing through the next doorway and into a lavish parlor that appeared to take up most of the tower's lower floor. The great round chamber was lit by the soft glow of crystalline lamps spaced along walls of polished hardwood, along with flames that danced in the great hearth that dominated the room. Every rug and stuffed chair was spotless and vivid with color, and the great mahogany table that looked like it could serve a dozen dinners -along with a smaller one carved of cherrywood that rested before the hearth- where both polished to a mirror's sheen.

At the very center of the room a carpeted staircase spiraled up to the next story, and in front of the hearth sat a plush red sofa. A man reclined upon its cushions, face slightly wrinkled and drawn taut, his brown hair tightly bound and streaked with grey. He was the sole occupant of the parlor, dressed in impeccable green and gold-threaded silks, face unreadable as he watched them lug the chest inside and place it upon a carpet next to an exceptionally stuffed chair with crushed velvet drapery that brushed all the way to the floor.

"Ramazith," Edwin presumed, inclining his head.

"Aye," the man in silk replied with a faintly Amnish accent. "I received your letter. Short notice but intriguing. Thayvian 'artifacts' is it? A funny word to throw around, as I presume 'trinkets' would be more accurate."

Ashura groaned internally and found her hand resting on her sword. _Great. He's like a second Edwin. This won't end well._

To her surprise Edwin didn't immediately conjure up a fireball, and even seemed to take the insult in stride. "By the standards of Thay they certainly are trinkets, but I assure you that the quality of my goods surpasses any magical craftsmanship you would find in this backwoods (bones and shells strung together with hempen rope and blessed by one-eyed crones is all the fashion here, isn't it?)" He gestured towards the chest and it yawned open of its own accord, revealing a pile of rods and wands in a wide assortment of sizes and designs, along with bracers of bronze, brass, and even what appeared to be gold. Scattered here and there in the pile of treasure were decorative wooden boxes, each marked with a glyph of red, green, or royal purple.

An impressive little hoard, if it hadn't all been completely fake; conjured less than an hour before by one of Edwin's spells that created temporarily solid objects, and glamered up by Xan's illusions and _magic aura_ spells. The two mages had assured everyone else that Ramazith would be fooled by the trick, but the unreadable and unimpressed look he gave pile of treasure made Ashura wary.

"Rings are my specialty," Edwin added, drawing attention to his fingers and the bejeweled bands he wore prominently on each hand. He went into a familiar sales pitch. "I am especially fond of this one, bound with an enchantment to quicken and expand the mind to the extent that there is room for more spells." He tapped a second band. "Of course a strong aura of _protection_ never goes out of fashion, for those rare times when contingencies and extra spells fail."

Ramazith cocked his head slightly and a hint of amusement tugged at his eyes and lips. "More spells and a quickened mind? Now that is intriguing. Any mage worth his mephit-powder knows that more spells should always be of top priority, provided you're not some fool who prepares _water breathing_ and _control_ in the desert, as the saying goes."

"Indeed," Edwin agreed. "And I've several copies of this ring, along with, as you can see, a wide variety of wands. You'll find my prices quite reasonable should you buy in bulk. More than enough to turn a tidy profit."

"I'm mostly interested in these rings of yours." Ramazith stood, brushing off his fine silks. "And more particularly how they are forged. It's an enchantment I must admit I've never come across. Something that would be quite useful to add to my repertoire."

Edwin's eyes narrowed. "Thayvian enchanting techniques are most certainly not for sale."

"A pity, as that's all I'm interested in. I'm one of the most prominent dealers in enchanted items in this city, you see." Ramazith waved a hand at the opulence around them. "And I didn't reach this kind of wealth and status by turning over secondhand goods for a 'tidy profit.'" He shot a glare at the chest. "Or falling for illusions."

Ashura's feet slipped into a stance that would let her spring forward easily, and her right hand gripped one of her swords. _Knew that trick wouldn't work._ Wizards always have a way of knowing, or at least guessing ahead of you. Even if your magic is flawless, they're usually smart, cagey buggers. Especially the kind of wizard who lives in a bloody _tower_.

"If there truly was a merchant entering my city with such a large stash of wands and rings," Ramazith went on, "do you think I would not know about it? That I wouldn't have heard about your sales from my contacts here and along the coast? A rolled up cloth full of wands I could believe, but a whole treasure chest? You really overdid it."

"Believe what you-" Edwin began.

"But you _do_ know something of enchanting rings like the one on your finger, I'm guessing." As he droned on Ramazith's fingers swirled and Edwin stretched his hands out as well. "And I _suggest_ you just relax and tell me everything you know about forging them."

Edwin did not relax.

In fact his face contorted with a look of deep discomfort for a moment, and one of his hands shot up to his temple. There seemed to be a brief buzzing sound, his eyes scrunched up tight, and then he violently shook his head, steadied himself, and glared. "You _dare!_ " he immediately snarled.

"Ah, so that's what that circlet does," Ramazith observed, frowning slightly. "Another intriguing enchantment."

"You dare try to _control_ a Red Wizard of Thay! I should burn you and this tower to the ground!" Ramazith just held a calm, focused glare as Edwin snarled and rolled his sleeves up. Beyond the tension in the air Ashura couldn't see or feel anything, but Garrick was looking around at different spots of the room with horror on his face, backing away slightly, and reaching for his crossbow. No doubt someone who had dabbled in magic could see the signs of countless contingencies, ward and magical countermeasures that Ramazith was ready to spring.

Attacking a prepared wizard in his own layer. Always foolish.

"We should go," Ashura hissed, grabbing Edwin by the elbow and backing towards the door, her other hand at her sword. Garrick stood beside her, his crossbow out and loaded.

Ramazith's frown had deepened, and though he made no move it looked like calculations were rolling through his head. "Yes, I think you should," he agreed coldly. "Tempting as it is to take that ring and circlet from your corpse, Thayvian, it would not be worth the scorch marks on my carpets." The door leading out of the tower creaked open on its own.

"Oh, there would be far more than-" Edwin snarled.

"Edwin, come on!" With one hand still at the red wizard's elbow, Ashura grabbed the handle of the chest, Garrick took another, and for a long, tense moment they backed through the doorways, wrestling a bit with their gangly cargo and the barely restrained red wizard. Thankfully the chest was a bit lighter now, and when they stepped out onto the darkened street and Edwin shook himself and waved a hand to dismiss his conjurations, it grew lighter still.

"The nerve of that arrogant bastard," Edwin muttered as he peered up at the tower, still shaking his head.

"To step into a wizard's tower and try and pull one over on him?" Garrick suggested. "That does certainly take some nerve."

Edwin rolled his eyes, still fuming. At least he had limited himself to huffiness and snarled threats, though. Despite the bluster he had probably known that attacking Ramazith in his home and with his hackles up was a terrible idea, just as Ramazith had known that the battle was no safe bet for him either.

And it didn't matter; they had done exactly what they had set out to accomplish. In all the hubbub over mind-expanding rings and mind-protecting circlets Ramazith had never noticed when the hidden cache on the opposite side of the trunk had opened, nor had he seen a magically-miniaturized Imoen crawl out and slip under the nearby chair.

Now they just had to lug the false-bottomed chest back to Black Lily at the thieves' house, and hope that Imoen and her friends could do the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should mention that this isn't the last we've seen of Skie Silvershield. And how could Skie read a magic scroll, you might ask? Why, the D&D Third Edition Use Magical Device skill of course. She's a Third Edition rogue after all, not some common Second Edition thief!
> 
> I think it was Kaispan's wonderful fic Truth or Tale that inspired the idea of Edwin's circlet giving him mental protections (if I remember how Edwin's circlet works in that story at least. I may have that detail mixed up with other fanfics that have blurred together in my head. And in this case it's meant to be a very basic Circlet of Charm Protection.) In his portrait Edwin looks like he's decked out in jewelry, and you just have to wonder what sort of enchantments the circlet, bracers and rings might carry.


	61. The Book in the Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein thieves do their thing

_ "They say that nymphs can blind a man with their beauty, but I'm just not seeing it. Or much of anything! [Pantomimes blindness.]"  _ \- Garrick Anthras, during a (failed) comedic performance at Mithral Hall

* * *

A low, steady noise –like a perpetual intake of breath– accompanied the air elemental as it buzzed across the carpet and tiles. The sound made the little mist-grey cloud easy to hear coming, and easy for Imoen to track by ear behind her potted plant, crouching low as she could. As the sound swept by and _seemed_ to recede she bobbed her head a bit, trying to catch a better peak through the tall fronds of the snake-plant without making anything rustle.

_ Which way is it facing? _ And did it even have a… _yes!_ That puffy bit of extra cloud at the top looked like a head, and if so then those little recesses had to be the eyes! The elemental turned past the nearby stairway's banister and glided on, bobbing as it went, and Imoen ducked away and held her breath.

The thing (Creature? Construct? Entity? Was it male? Female? Neither?) was just a few paces away. She hadn't seen a facsimile of ears, but surely it would hear if she made a sound. Or maybe it was deaf, but maybe it could smell her? Where those even really eyes, as she had guessed? And if so was its vision keen or weak? How _does_ a living puff of slightly-sapient cloud perceive the world around it anyway?

But as her mind and heart raced the vacuum-sound droned by and receded further along the curved walkway. After a few moments Imoen dared another peak over the rim of her clay pot, and caught a glimpse of the cloud's trail (Or tail?) as it climbed the spiral staircase on the far side of the chamber. Then it was gone.

_ Hrm.  _ That was the second time she had watched the elemental bob by (at least she thought it was the same one.) A long patrol too; a bit less than a quarter of an hour, perhaps? That left her plenty of time for the next step.

Still crouching, Imoen made her way along the walkway, past caged and potted plants, and over to the western window. As Edwin had predicted, the wards outside around the window's frame were devious and multi-layered; glyphs spaced out on the surfaces so that there was nowhere an intruder could touch without setting them off.

The glyphs on the inside windowsill were a different matter though. A few carefully applied pinches of alchemical powder dissolved the symbol of an alarm spell, the script glowing faintly and then winking out with a slight sizzle. The miniaturizing spell used to smuggle her inside had long since worn off (and a good thing! She was short enough as is,) and with a little stretching she was able to reach even the top of the windowsill.

Next she unmade the harder-to-reach wards, and then the ones on the glass itself. A careful turn of a latch and a tap opened the window a crack, and then, making sure not to push it out too far, she worked her way to the outer wards, a pinch of sharp-smelling powder at a time.

_ Sizzle-pop. Sizzle-pop.  _ The enchanted traps had only been drawn right by the window, the slanted roof appearing to be unwarded, probably because it was a likely spot for birds to land and waste the spells. She could just imagine: being awakened early in the morning by an alarm only to find that some pigeon had been fried on your windowsill, forcing you to cast the spells all over again.

Once all the arcane writing was erased Imoen pushed the broad, double-paned window fully open, cringing at the slight creak that it made. One more glance around to make sure there was nothing moving through the gardens on this level of the tower, and then she raised a hand and conjured up a tiny light-cantrip. She simply willed it to blink three times above her palm, then snuffed it out with a thought.

With the signal sent she sat back and waited, leaning against a large pot filled with tall, sharp-bladed grass that smelled a bit like lemons. It was odd, Imoen thought as she glanced around at all the decorative plants, to think of Ramazith having a green thumb. Did he have elemental gardeners? Examining the room a bit more she recognized a few common alchemical ingredients: yarrow flowers, mandrake plants, forktongue, and hyssop. Decorative and functional.

It wasn't a long wait before a figure wriggled up onto the pagoda-roof before her, stood, and then effortlessly slipped through the window. For a moment he was swathed in the black of the night behind him, but as he crept forward his cloak took on the brown earth-tone of the chamber's floor and walls, and from his hood spilled messy locks of auburn hair. Looking up to Imoen, Coran's eyes glinted with a mischievous twinkle, surrounded by the green of his bandit-mask tattoo. His lips quirked as well, as if he was about to say something cheeky, but he held back.

_ So he  _ can _be silent. Forget sometimes that when I first met him he was working as a scout._

Behind the elf a second, smaller figure climbed through the window; a woman half his size, with big feet and hands. Beneath her cloak there were splashes of dark purple, and the hair that peaked from beneath her cowl was dyed a bright shade of violet. Once she had settled onto the floor and glanced around Alora flashed a bright smile in Imoen's direction, though she too was quiet as a mouse.

The three thieves shared a quick nod, then Imoen turned and took the lead, creeping along the path that led around the indoor garden, mindful to keep close to the encroaching plants. If any guardians appeared there was plenty of cover to vanish into. At least on this floor; Mask only knew what the next level would hold.

Low as she could crouch, Imoen padded over to the spiral staircase at the far side of the chamber and climbed the steps, ears open and searching for the hum of that patrolling elemental. All was silent though, even after she topped the stairs and found herself on a floor much like the previous one, if even richer with greenery; a garden of tall plants in earthen pots and wispy vines dangling from wooden lattices spaced along the walls.

The plants were different –and denser– here, but the layout was the same: the round garden-chamber took up the entire story of the tower, and a spiral staircase that led to the next level was visible on the far side. There was a straight, open path through the middle of the room, from one staircase to the other. Or they could creep along close to the wall.

The straight path felt a little too open for her liking, so Imoen turned to the tower's wall and began to inch forward. She hadn't gone two steps, though, when Coran stopped her with a gentle hand to the shoulder. When she turned to give him a questioning look he shook his head and pointed up and over her head at a vine that hung from a trellis, near a window where the city's light filtered through.

It was a plant she didn't recognize; licorice-black and whipcord-thin, ending in fine hairs that brushed above the floor. Coran gestured at the vine, then put his hand to his neck and pantomimed choking.

Imoen frowned at that, looking from elf to plant and back again. _Was that..?_ Could it really be an assassin vine? A carnivorous plant she had read about in bestiaries, which strangles passing animals and uses their corpses as compost for its roots.

_ Nasty.  _ She turned towards the central path and gave the hardwood floor a long, wary look. The choking vines would either catch intruders or force them to walk the middle, so there were likely traps hidden on the central path as well. If Ramazith was the devious bastard he seemed to be, at least.

Slow and cautious, with her eyes sweeping the floor and searching for glyphs, Imoen started through the center of the chamber, fronds and manicured shrubs towering over her at either side.

Her eyes were on the floor, but a sharp tap from Alora had Imoen freezing in place and looking up, heart lurching. It lurched even more when she spotted the brown, winged creature that was lazily drifting over the hedges just ahead.

Silent but frantic, Imoen slipped off the open path and curled up behind the nearest pot, and as she hunched down she spotted Alora doing the same on the other side, hiding in a bush. Coran had vanished even more completely; likely bundled up in that handy cloak of his.

She couldn't see the creature now, but she could hear the gentle flap of its leathery wings. Some sort of imp, it had looked like. Imoen's racing heart ticked off the long, tense seconds, pumping cold blood through her veins. Waiting and waiting.

Hopefully Coran would know when the thing had passed by, with his keen ears and all. Or if nothing happened she'd eventually have to risk a glance-about. Would the imp be roosting with the hanging vines? Or would it just fly around endlessly?

A sharp _shout_ nearby had Imoen gasping and turning her head.

"Yowchies!" Alora's voice cried out from the darkness, low in volume but high in pitch, and the halfling immediately leapt out from beneath the bush and rolled across the open floor. _What is she-?_

A trail of smoke rose from Alora as she righted herself and frantically whipped off her cloak, tossing it away. Smoke, but Imoen couldn't see any flames in the darkness. Instead some of the darkness seemed to be flowing out from beneath the bush where Alora had been hiding. There was a strange _scwicky_ sound as it pushed past leaves and slithered out, wet and glistening; now a vivid shade of orange in the dim light.

The undulating pool of _something_ flowed forward faster than it had any right to, Alora still sitting on the floor and back-scampering quick as she could. As the thing moved, a slimy segment separated and rose up into the air, dripping.

It arched like a tendril. It smacked down like a lash.

Alora rolled across the hardwood and out of the tendril's path, letting out a yelp. Wisps of hissing smoke were rising from spots on her back as she scrambled to her feet and dashed away from the slithering pool; stray droplets had splattered, and burned pinprick holes through her shirt.

Imoen had hesitated for a blink, trying desperately to think of something 'stealthy' to do. _So much for that!_

Instead she launched herself out from behind the plant and rushed at the quivering mass of slime, pressing her thumbs together as her fingers fluttered forward. No _way_ was she sticking her dagger (and wrist) into that thing! And this spell had worked on slimy stuff before.

She tried to intone the arcane words as low as she could, but there was nothing stealthy about the flames that burst from her fingertips and rushed out in a jet before her. Where the fire struck the ochre stuff it instantly began to blacken and boil, and the sizzle and popping reminded Imoen briefly of bacon.

Or it did until the horrid smell struck her nose that is. Then she couldn't help but turn her head and suppress a gag. _Eww! It's like burning puke!_

More and more of the slimy pool bubbled and popped, and Imoen pressed, daring one step forward, then another. Bubbles, gurgles, and then came a slicking sound as a tendril of the stuff rolled up and back like a scorpion's tail. The counterattack!

_ Ack!  _ She took a skip-skip-skip to the side as the gloppy appendage slapped down and slithered along the floor, chasing after her feet. There was a sting followed by a deepening burn on her forearm (a stray drop or two?) but she bit down and kept her hands up, flames still flowing from her fingers.

The _put-put-put_ of Alora twirling her sling sounded nearby, and then a white-hot comet streaked past Imeon and splashed into the ochre pool, bursting into flames. The little puff of fire expanded into a blackened hole, and Alora followed through, swift and sure, by slinging another burning stone.

_ Gotta love those fire enchantments.  _

All that fire had the gelatinous pool breaking and dividing into quivering clods and droplets, and a good thing too, since Imoen's flames had begun to sputter out. Just as she was pondering how exactly to be _sure_ the thing was dead an inhuman shriek right behind her drew her attention and she spun.

A flutter of wind struck her face as something craggy and monkey-shaped loomed up and close. _Ack!_

It seemed suspended in the air –frozen– but then as Imoen snatched up her dagger time resumed, and instead of attacking the thing just crashed to the floor, letting out a brittle _crack_ and breaking into a thousand pieces.

Just behind the shattered thing ( _a statue? No, it had to be a magical construct. The impish creature?_ ) stood Coran, both of his daggers pointing forward. He shot Imoen a grin, eyes twinkling just like always. An instant of smug mischief, and then he and the other two thieves remembered where they were and moved on instinct, shifting into a defensive crouch, turning and coming together; back to the back to back.

The stench of the burnt slime hung heavy in the air, and the echo of the imp shattering still seemed to ring in their ears. Surely Ramazith could smell or hear this, even down on the bottom floor where Imoen had last seen him. Surely an army of mephitis and slimes and elementals was on the way.

But a long moment passed in silence.

Then another, and another.

And then came the slow and relentless vacuum sound, echoing off the bare walls. They all felt each other tense up, and once again they all scuttled off to hide, quiet as they could. This time Imoen found herself packed against Alora, behind the big earthen pot she had used before and watching around the corner. She held the grip of her dagger tight, hoping that it could pierce living-wind well enough when the elemental came in swinging. The blade (which she had lifted off of Montaron's corpse a couple of lifetimes ago,) had a decent enchantment on it, at least. She'd just never tested it on-

The transparent cone-body, dust devil-arms, and cloudy face of the air elemental bobbed its way down the spiral stairs, then turned at the bottom, and without pause it sputtered on along the outer walkway, soon slipping behind the plants and out of view. The three thieves shared a nervous glance and waited.

Eventually the living cloud floated into sight once again (apparently ignored by the assassin vine) and approached the second flight of stairs. Then down it went, vanishing. _So…air elementals don't have a sense of smell?_ Or maybe it just didn't care.

Imoen was happy to get away from it at least, and without tripping over any other monsters they managed to creep over to the staircase and climb, Coran now in the lead. He peaked up over the lip of the next floor and did a careful lookabout ounce he was there, but soon gestured for the others to follow.

All was silent and still in the next story of the tower, which appeared to be a workshop of sorts. Desks and tables lined the room, topped with equipment in meticulous order. Imoen recognized much of it: a bellows sitting by a small brick oven, tongs and mallets and countless cutting tools laid out upon a table nearby. There were tripods and braziers on a second table, along with stands holding glass vials. Next to those stood a great copper sphere with several tubes sticking out at various angles, which sat next to a device of the sort Imoen had seen the monks of Candlekeep use to strain tinctures through cloth bags.

Beyond the little laboratory lay two stone slabs, stained orange in places and sitting next to a table lined with familiar tools. It was the sort of setup the priests used to prepare corpses for burial in the Candlekeep Crypts, a sign that perhaps Ramazith dabbled in necromancy.

_ Hopefully  _ just _necromancy._ Imoen noticed that one of the slabs had steel manacles attached the corners.

They crossed this laboratory with as much caution as the previous floor, waiting for the hidden ochre jellies or exploding glyphs, but each nerve-wracking step just brought them closer and closer to the next flight of spiral stairs.

Once again Imoen found herself filing in behind Coran as he scouted his way up the staircase, the edges of the elf's cloak bunched up in his hands so he could wrap it around himself at a moment's notice. He slowed and halted once he got to the top, belly against the stairs and eyes just over the edge, and Imoen slipped and wriggled up beside him to get a peak as well, sensing Alora worm her way in beside her.

They all got a good look at the next floor. They didn't climb any farther.

_ Ho-boy!  _ Now _here_ was what looked like some real security. And it smelled almost as bad as the slime-creature too. The next level of the tower was bare, open, and guarded by six monstrous _things_.

They were hunched like apes, their wrinkled and ruddy skin tight in places and gashed wide-open in others, where taut muscle gleamed through. Lips completely gone, their sharp white teeth and blood-red gums glistened in the dim light of the overhead lamps, along with their cataract-white eyes, set deep in blackened sockets.

You could tell that the things had once been human; discern their sexes and some unique features, but the magic that held them together had also warped their bodies: sharpened finger-bones into claws, extended arms longer than they should ever go, turned once-human faces into tight masks, half-skull and half-beast. Their lack of clothes, hunched postures, wild hair and patchy skin made them seem like savage monsters, but the open rips that reveled muscle, tendon and bone made it clear that they were no living things.

That and the smell.

_ Ghouls!  _ Imoen realized. ( _Or ghasts?_ The bestiaries weren't real clear on how to spot the difference, beyond saying that ghasts were much tougher.) They shambled aimlessly through the chamber, slow but restless.

The three thieves shared a worried look, and Imoen thought how useful Viconia's drow sign language would be at a moment like this. She had learned a few of the gestures herself, but doubted that Alora or Coran knew any. So instead they quietly crawled back down the stairs and backed away at the bottom.

Once out of earshot, they conferred in the lowest whispers they could use manage. "Just one inviso spell left," Imoen started, cutting to the chase. She found herself regretting not preparing more of that spell, but there was so much other useful magic, dern it!

Alora wasn't perturbed. "Me and Cory have potions, just in case." She glanced up the stairs. "And I can go lower to the ground than those creepies." A confident smile. "Sure as sure, I can sneak right by."

"And I have my cloak," Coran agreed with a grin and a nod. "'Inviso' yourself, Imoen. We'll slip by them the less fancy way. And chug a potion if one of the ghouls actually stirs." When Imoen gave him a look of doubt and concern his grin just grew. "Don't worry. Me and Lora are professionals." He patted the halfling on the arm.

"Yuppers. Professional sneaky-thieves. And this'll be even easier than slippin' past guards, 'cause ghouls are duuuuuumb."

"Alright, alright," Imoen agreed, turning towards the flight of stairs to chant her words, quick and silent as she could. The familiar ripple of light ran over her, and she vanished.

No reason to hesitate, so across the room and up the stairs she went.

As she carefully placed her feet it occurred to Imoen that unlike the elemental, these things definitely might be able to smell her. _They really should include that in the bestiaries. 'Beware: has a keen nose.'_ The enchantment on her boots helped her keep a brisk pace even as she made sure each footfall was deliberate and silent, and once she had mounted the steps she began to meander, careful to keep as much distance from each ghoul as she could.

Though it made her queasy, she forced herself to watch the creatures as she hunched down and waddled by, searching those raw, grinning faces and glistening eyes for any sign that they were taking note of her or her companions. The ghouls were always in motion, though it amounted mostly to restless shifting and jittery twitching, every movement making Imoen's stomach lurch.

Alora and Coran were up here now, skirting opposite walls and making their way around the chamber the long way, the elf covered completely with his cloak and the halfling so low that she was almost crawling on her belly. Passing through the center of the chamber, Imoen suppressed a gasp and her stomach flopped even more when one of the ghouls turned suddenly and she found herself looking directly into its eyes, the empty white pools edged with rotten black.

But those eyes remained dull, and after a pause Imoen took a step forward, then another, and then the creature turned the other way and she skittered past it, edging her way to the spiral stairs. Once there, instead of climbing, she turned and shuffled a bit to the side, anxiously watching the progress of her friends.

Coran had stopped and frozen still, becoming a faint bulge the exact color as the faded blue wall he was pressed up against. A ghoul had turned and seemed to be looking directly in his direction, but it showed no interest, apparently fooled by the camouflage. Meanwhile Alora continued to worm her way along the opposite wall, one careful shimmy at a time, and even though two of the undead were facing her general direction they appeared to be oblivious. She halted suddenly, however, when one of the ghouls got off its haunches and waddled towards her, closer and closer to the wall.

Worse still, the approaching ghoul's head seemed to suddenly snap back and up, bloody nostrils flaring as if it had caught a whiff of something. It turned slowly, scenting and searching, head pivoting from side to side.

_ Ack! Ack! Ack! Mask help us!  _ Imoen found herself praying when the face of the creature turned in Alora's direction and stayed there, head still tilted too far back to spot the halfling –yet.

With a silent and shocking burst of speed Alora suddenly launched herself from the wall, low and zipping in _right_ behind the creature. The ghoul snuffled at the air and twitched with agitation, but as it turned and looked about the room Alora followed it precisely, keeping _right_ behind it and out of sight. They turned one way, then another. A sharp pivot, another turn, then Alora was aligned with the staircase and she _whirled_ , risking another burst of speed to dash to the steps and climb them at a near jog, her bare, fuzzy feet somehow managing to not make so much as a scrape or clomp the whole way.

The other ghouls were alert now, heads turning and nostrils in the air, but they had all started shifting towards the spot on the far wall where Alora had _been_. That gave Coran a clear shot at the stairs, and he took it, dashing as fast as quiet feet would allow. The moment he started climbing Imoen fell in behind him, padding her way up the steps until the ghouls were thankfully out of sight.

Imoen had barely reached the top of the next flight and taken a relieved breath when a muffled shriek from Alora set her nerves jangling all over again. Dagger drawn, she dashed fully into the room, eyes searching the bookshelves and tables for danger. This floor reminded her for all the world of Candlekeep; packed and stacked high and wide with books and loose rolls of paper, and if she had counted the tower's floors correctly this was the top story. The wizard's study.

Besides the books other objects crowded the shelves and countertops: vials, jugs, jars filled with a rainbow of colored liquids, feathers, tufts of fur, skulls of varying shapes, and even oddly colored teeth. A bit less tidy than the laboratory below, but perhaps that was just due to the sheer volume of arcane paraphernalia here; so many books and potions and components that it had overcome Ramazith's ability to sort and categorize.

Imoen had to dodge around a couple of these overpacked tables and bookcases before she caught sight of Alora, who appeared to be gaping at something, hands clamped to her mouth and eyes wide with shock. Another step past a bookshelf and Imoen had to stifle a gasp as well, catching sight of a round iron cage and the prisoner within.

Inside slumped a woman, held limp and upright in a tortured position by shackles at the wrists. Her limbs were brittle and twig-thin, and her honey-gold skin (Imoen could swear there was a faint glow there, just beneath the surface,) seemed desiccated; wrinkled like bark and stretched over jagged bones. The golden, shimmering color of her skin was marred further by long tracks on her arms and thighs that appeared to be caked with dry, black blood.

The woman looked to be an elf, judging by the sharply pointed ears tucked behind the mask she wore; a strange, bulky device of riveted leather and wood, with clear glass bulbs attached to the flaps beneath her cheeks. The glass contained some sort of liquid, sloshing with each of the captive's labored breaths. Her head had been shaved bald, uneven stubble beginning to show through, and besides the mask a few strips of filthy, ragged gossamer was all that the poor creature wore.

_ That mask? A device for collecting tears?  _ Surely not. What an absurd thought.

Coran pushed his way to the bars, a pained expression on his face. "Selderine have mercy," he managed to whisper, and at the sound of his voice the captive cringed back and frantically pulled at her chains, knees bending alternately and hips twisting. It was as if she were trying with all her feeble strength to curl up into a ball. To disappear.

"No!" the captive croaked in a raw, unsteady voice. "You- you can't…"

"It's okay," Coran tried in his most soothing tone, hand out and open. "We're not here to hurt you. We'll get you-"

"It's not! It's NOT!" Both of the captive's knees bent now, rising briefly to her chest, as she twisted and struggled like something wild and wounded. A sob wracked her and she slumped forward again. "No one can see. No one can SEE!"

"Let's just get you free okay?" Coran whispered gently, his placating hands unseen by the masked woman. He shared a worried look with Alora. "We have to free her."

"Well, _yeah_ ," was all Imoen could think so say, approaching fast. _No shit._ "You see those glyphs all around the cage?"

Both the other thieves gave a nod. "Those are…electric wards, right?" Coran pointed. "The rest though…"

"Yup," Imoen agreed. "You just take care of those trap-triggers there and there, and I'll do the rest." She bit her lip when she realized how pointless it was to point while she was invisible, but Coran and Alora got right to kneeling and sprinkling alchemical powder onto the arcane traps. _Professionals._ While they went to work Imoen opened up a leather-bound case that hung at her hip.

Always be prepared _. Especially_ when you're infiltrating a wizard's tower. She had come ready to combat magic.

Holding the scroll out in front of her, she unfurled it, took a breath, and then-

_ Urm? Ack!  _ The parchment –along with the hands that held it– was invisible. _How am I supposed to read it?_ She knew that the first spoken word of the spell would be ' _Tiras_ ,' and that before intoning she was supposed to look at her target and see where the weave-

In a rainbow flash Imoen's hands and the parchment, with all its flowing draconic script and spiraling diagrams, appeared. Apparently the opening thought-pattern for the spell was enough to break her invisibility.

She floundered a moment, and then made herself focus, feeling out the threads of magic that wound up from the floor and around each bar of the cage, binding in both a physical and metaphysical sense. Remembering what Xan had taught her. _See the threads. Intone the words. Will the threads to unravel._ Easy enough.

Casting this spell would probably alert Ramazith, if he hadn't been alerted already, but they'd just have to deal with that. They couldn't just ignore this poor prisoner.

Chanted words ignited the parchment in a flash of white that rolled outward and gathered, glowing but heatless, at Imoen's fingertips, then gesturing the way that the scroll had instructed, she flicked her wrists and launched the crackling energy at the cage. There was a blinding flash when contact was made, and Imoen blinked and turned away from the waring strands of magic.

A moment of sizzling and tension, then it all burst into stars and fell away.

"All gone," Imoen announced, just in case the other two didn't know what the falling sparks signified, and Coran rushed to the cage door with a lockpick in hand. Alora hurried to help, climbing –easy as a monkey– up the outside bars, where she went to work on the shackles.

Imoen glanced around the study. An afterthought: _Suppose I should find Edwin's book._ It would be somewhere in this library; a large tome with a burgundy-red cover, edged in black and crosshatched with gold threading, entitled: ' _Instructions on Obtaining Clear and Unobstructed Thought'_ and subtitled: _'And Other Meditation Techniques.'_

Such an odd request. She had tried to imagine the blustery red wizard searching for inner peace, and just had to laugh. His instructions had been odd in another way as well. 'I know for sure Ramazith owns that tome, but there are doubtlessly other thick, gilded books lying about his study. It would be prudent of you to filch as many as possible, as they are all valuable.'

Growing up in Candlekeep had given Imoen a pretty good eye for truly expensive books and their cheaper counterparts (like the tawdry chapbooks and mass-produced literature she had always enjoyed, and that many of the monks had called 'worthless pulp.') Ramazith's library was fairly familiar: mostly cheap but practical reading material: encyclopedias, histories, bestiaries, botanical _materia medica_ guides, and general arcane tomes. There were a lot of wooden cabinets though, sealed up and perhaps holding unseen treasures. _Perhaps-_

A thunderclap shook the tower, the floorboards vibrating beneath Imoen's feet and giving her a start. All three thieves paused and readied their weapons, glancing about, but once the rumble had died away all grew silent again.

_ Maybe that was outside? A sudden storm?  _ Another beat passed with no sign of a lightning-slinging Ramazith, and they all swiftly turned back to their locks, the door to the cage swinging open and the manacles falling away while Imoen worked at the cabinet door she had started to probe.

The moment the prisoner's arms slipped free of their bonds she collapsed, and when Coran attempted to catch her she recoiled, squirming back until she pressed up against the bars of her cage. Imoen gave her a worried glance, then her eyes widened as she saw a large flap of skin fall away from the woman's shaking arm, like a great flake of dead bark. There was no blood or muscle beneath; just a smooth, dark surface, and as Imoen watched the woman's terrified quivering dislodged another loose piece of skin.

Coran had shrugged off his cloak, and now he tried to drape it over the poor woman. "It's alright," he whispered. "We won't hurt you."

"You are!" she insisted, voice panicked and high in pitch. She shouted the next words. "You are hurting! Seeing hurts! No one can see!"

"Here then." Coran pushed the cloak over her, but her shaking threatened to dislodge it. Her surfaces seemed to be cracking in several places now, more withered bark than skin.

_ Some sort of spell? A curse?  _ Imoen guessed.

But no; the captive's proportions and affect and _aura_ (there really seemed to be a golden glow coming off her shriveled skin,) were so strange and different from a human's. Or even an elf's. And that skin; threatening to crinkle away to dust at any moment. All the signs were there. This was a fey creature, like the sirines, whose bodies had wavered and shifted easy as seawater, and who had burst into foam when they died.

And this woman seemed of the forest; skin drying up crinkly like a plant's and limbs shaped like twigs. A dryad maybe? Taken from her tree but somehow kept alive?

"I'm Coran. Can you tell me your name?" He had reached down with steady hands to undo the straps of the woman's mask, peeling it away with a clink and a slosh of liquid. _Vials of captured tears._

She clenched her eyes shut and buried herself in the elven cloak. "You can't see!" She shrieked again. "Ugly and broken! I can feel it in you. You see the ugliness! And that…that…"

With a click the cabinet unlocked and at the same time Imoen snapped her fingers. "She's a nymph," she announced to no one in particular. She had once read that their tears were used to make love potions, horrible as that is when you stop to think about it.

"Truly?" Coran asked. "But nymphs are…" He gasped and looked away, cringing and shaking his head. "Oh, I see."

"Don't see…please…" the poor creature quietly begged, rocking herself in the corner. A bit of her knee flaked off and fell away with the motion, and Imoen looked away too, opening the cabinet.

_ Dern. What a dilemma.  _ All the books made a big deal about how nymphs were spirits of beauty, and thrived on it. The flipside of that: maybe this woman was actually being _physically_ hurt by them seeing her in this state. It seemed absurd, but…

"I'm…I'm Abela," the prisoner managed, whispering against her knees.

"Well," Coran said in as reassuring a voice as he could muster. "We'll get you out of here, Abela. And I'm looking away, okay? See?"

Several books and arcane scrolls rested inside the cabinet, and one was thicker than the rest, with golden crosshatching and onyx trim. _There! That's it!_ As Imoen snatched the book up the floor beneath them rumbled and shook once again, and she was sure she heard the telltale roar of flames bursting outward somewhere on the level below.

An incendiary bomb. Or a fireball spell.

She whirled from the cabinet and rushed to the nearest tower window, gesturing for the others to follow (hopefully Coran could coax the nymph into moving.) They'd just need to disarm the arcane traps at the window now (a bit late for caring about alarms,) and then they'd have a route of escape. She had a featherfall spell ready, and the other two claimed they could climb anything. Of course Abela might present a challenge…

A sound halfway between fabric ripping and an electric crackle had Imoen turning once again, in time to see a rippling, mirror-like surface burst into being in the middle of the study. A man stumbled out of the portal, frazzled and disoriented, his green and gold silks singed in places. A shake of his head and he quickly composed himself, eyes falling on Imoen and friends.

And he did _not_ look amused.

He didn't look particularly surprised either. "Ah," Ramazith grumbled. "So _that's_ how my wards got breached." The next spell he launched from his fingertips materialized and struck with dazzling speed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter is a bit of a tribute to old pulp Sword and Sorcery stories, which often have titles like 'The Thing in/of the Thing.' The very first Fafhrd and the Grey Mouser story Fritz Leiber published was titled 'The Jewels in the Forest,' for instance, and Conan stories tend to have titles like that. Towers also seem to feature prominently.
> 
> I altered the layout of Ramazith's tower slightly here (as well as the monsters therein.) It seems like having one big spiral staircase that people can just rush up in the middle of your tower kind of undermines the idea of putting monsters on each level. And while I was at it I gave him a bit more of a laboratory. The guy brews potions and creates ghasts and magical items, after all.
> 
> Also: according to the lore Ramazith is supposed to be good. And...not even a wizard like in the game? He's a fighter? (What?!) I'm just going to write that off as Volo being an unreliable narrator who's wrong about some things.


	62. That Terrible Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Abela seizes some agency

_ "Trust no appearances in the wilds of Faery, for there is nothing there that is not mutable"  _ –old star elf saying

* * *

A flick of Ramazith's wrist sent the air wavering before him, faster than Imoen could hope to react. It struck her with a wave of numbness, every muscle locking and deadening as she bent in a vain attempt to dodge aside.

_ No! No! No! Shit!  _ She wobbled like a poorly balanced statue, then tipped, a sharp jolt of pain piercing her left side where she struck a nearby desk and hung there. Somewhere out of her field of vision she heard the nymph Abela shriek, and she could see Coran nearby, standing completely still in the open and making no noise.

He'd gotten locked in place by the damn spell too! _Double-shit!_ Ramazith was facing her and Coran, arms stretched out as his side and fingers pointing to the floor. He took a breath.

_ So this is how it ends huh?  _ The most frustrating thing was being a bundled up ball of tension and terror, and having no way to let it out, heart flopping near the exploding point. She just _had_ to scream; to cringe away and curl up and shiver and shake, but every muscle was held tight and taut, pins and needles dancing in her chest.

Some detached and curious corner of her mind (the same part that kept wondering if air elementals could hear or smell, and if so how?) noted what the spell paralyzed and what it left working. Her lungs still pushed and pulled breath, of course, but every facial muscle, eyes included, was stuck, making it impossible to look about beyond a narrow field of vision.

A scent struck Imoen's nostrils as she took in a labored breath. Overcooked meat. And in the corner of her vision there was smoke, rising from the stairwell.

And instead of pointing at his prisoners, Ramazith's fingers continued to face the floor as he chanted, going through a nasal intonation that Imoen didn't recognize. "… _zekure_..."

_ Oh.  _ She knew that word! An abjuration, if she wasn't mistaken. _Maybe I'm not about to die, just yet._

A transparent sphere of blue light bloomed around the mage, confirming Imoen's guess, and at the same time she caught movement along with the smoke at the top of the stairs. A man climbed into view from there, dressed in a powder-blue jacket and darker trousers, along with a lot of what Imoen guessed was enchanted jewelry. He appeared to be much younger than Ramazith, perhaps in his thirties, but there was something haggard and hollowed-out about his features: puffy blue-black around his eyes, skin saggy as if he had recently lost a great deal of weight, his hair a tangled mess, and uneven stubble grew from his cheeks and chin.

There were also flickering lights dancing about the newcomer; some sort of enchanted protection by Imoen's guess, and when his eyes fell on Ramazith they sharpened with rage and hate. "Your creatures are ash now, Ramazith!" the man hissed. "And you're about to join them!"

The older mage just rolled his shoulders, and instead of talk he replied with lilting draconic words and a wave of his hand, a bolt of white light flying forth. The blast knocked the newcomer a few paces back and he nearly stumbled down the stairs, but managed to steady himself, the glowing aura about him flickering out and falling away.

The man retorted with a spell of his own, which made the air before him distort and take on a pinkish tone. Just in time too. Ramazith had been conjuring a bolt of green, glowing acid, and when he threw it at his foe it simply scattered against the wall and began to drip down.

"So," Ramazith noted, "you're not _quite_ as addled as you appear, are you Ragefast? I assumed your obsession over that _thing_ had made you too crazed to remember the steps of a proper wizard's duel."

"My Abela is not a thing!" Ragefast snarled.

" _Your_ Abela, huh?" the older man taunted, carefully backing away.

_ Ya bleedin' moron!  _ Imoen thought, wishing she could at least shout advice while she was stuck being a hapless spectator. _He's stalling you. Don't talk when ya can be flinging spells!_

"When I found her she was halfway withered already, out here in this ugly city and away from her grove. It would have been such a waste of valuable reagents, if you had let her die like that." As he spoke Ramazith reached behind him and snatched up a scroll from a nearby bookshelf.

Seeing this, his opponent swung into action, hands whirling round and round in something that Imoen recognized as a conjuration. It seemed a smart move to her: the wall of force (and Ramazith's magical globe,) kept Ragefast from flinging anything directly at his enemy, but he could at least send some conjured critter to nip at Ramazith's heels.

Unfortunately chatting had cost him. The scroll in Ramazith's hands turned to green fire just as the summoning circle in front of the wall welled up into existence, and before the conjuring was finished he flung the energy forward in a blast of green light. It ripped into the wall of force, flaring and burning it out of existence.

With a flash of fire and a stony rumble a creature rose up from Ragefast's conjuring circle, little wings arching upward. Its body was black as basalt and riddled with glowing red fissures; obviously an elemental critter formed from burning magma. Ramazith had launched into another spell just as the creature appeared, however, and before it had glided two paces across the room he aimed bent fingers in its direction, then waved them in a dismissive gesture.

The magma mephit seemed to shrink slightly, then with an understated _poofing_ sound (that Imoen couldn't help but think sounded like a fart,) the creature just vanished, banished back to its home plane.

Ragefast's hands were spinning now, close together, a white light building between his palms as he aimed his next spell. There was a drawn, resigned look on his face however. His foe was one step ahead, and he knew it, and as he flung the blast of white energy at Ramazith he cast a forlorn look off in a direction Imoen could not follow. At Abela, perhaps?

Cracks ran through the shimmering globe that protected Ramazith, and it burst into countless moats of light, swiftly winking out. The mage ignored the brightness around him though, focused as he was on conjuring a spell of his own between his palms, where arcs of lightning danced. The electric currents multiplied and writhed as Ramazith twisted his hands one way, then another, then back slightly. Then a flick of his wrists launched the crackling ball forward.

Bereft of his protections, Ragefast took the orb full-force as it struck him in the chest, white-hot currents arcing all around him, and a thungerclap echoing through the library. It blasted him back against the nearby banister, showering the floor with sparks, and he slumped there, convulsing, as Ramazith marched forward.

Tendrils of smoke escaped the edges of his mouth as Ragefast steadied himself, his eyes clear enough for him to glance past Imoen and Coran once again. "Abela. My love. I'm so, so sorry…" he managed with shaking voice, just before Ramazith's hands took on a blue-white glow and swept down towards his head, trails of icy mist following.

Where the frost-wreathed hands settled trails of ice slithered out, a crystalline crackle sounding as they grew, and the man's entire head and neck swiftly turned a grey-white color. Ragefast's legs kicked briefly, then he stilled, his hair frosted and his face quite literally frozen solid. Stepping back and yanking, Ramazith toppled the limp body, and when it struck the floor a sharp, brittle _crack_ echoed through the room as the man's head shattered into icy chunks.

Beyond Imoen's field of vision she heard Abela cry out once again.

"Such a fool," Ramazith muttered, stepping back and brushing his hands together as the frosty glow faded from them. He shot Imoen a glare. "Though between him and you two idiots I've been set back quite a bit." A shake of his head. "All my guardians destroyed, and the last harvest of tears wasted. Well, at least I have the materials to make two fresh ghasts."

He stepped forward, and once again Imoen wondered if she was about to die. But he was looking past her, and the gesture he made was casually commanding rather than arcane. "Here, nymph. Back to your cage. I promise this will all be over before the dawn."

"N…nu…no!" A shaking voice, hoarse and raspy.

Ramazith just shook his head impatiently. "I'm _offering_ to do this painlessly. Why, only this morning you were beginning for a quick end, no? No more tears and pain. I'll simply harvest the components I need, you will be no more, and our business will be done. Provided you _obey._ If not…well, you know the kind of pain I can inflict."

"No…"

"Do _not_ test my-"

"No! I must be FREE!" Fire lit Abela's voice now, and a ripple of energy flowed into Imoen's field of view and towards Ramazith, his brow rising in mild surprise. Between the cracks of the hardwood floor transparent vines appeared and uncoiled, slithering up to wrap round and around the mage's legs.

Scowling down, Ramazith barked out a simple phrase and flicked a finger, and the vines blinked out of existence. "Didn't think you had it left in you," he muttered dryly. "But this is _my_ tower." He raised a hand, aimed a finger. "One last chance to do this the painless way."

Before Ramazith could make his next move, painless or not, a scuffling sound from the bookcase behind him caught his attention and he began to turn – not quite fast enough. The streak of violet that plummeted from the top of the shelf struck him on the shoulders before he could adjust, and sent him teetering off-balance, dancing like a drunkard under the weight of a _very_ irate halfling.

As she clamped her legs tight against Ramazith's shoulders and neck, Alora let out a wordless, high-pitched battlecry, one hand yanking on the mage's hair while the other whipped her sling around and around over her head.

"You let…" she shouted as she brought the sling and stone down hard across the crown of Ramazith's head.

"…her go you…"

Another diagonal swing struck, and at the same time a flash of light blurred across Ramazith's body, his skin seeming to take on a slate-grey color.

_ A protective contingency,  _ Imoen realized. There was also a golden glow building from somewhere beyond her vision, burning a bit at the corner of her eye. Abela doing something, perhaps?

"…big dumb meanyhead!" The stone struck again, but this time instead of a boney crack the sound was low and dull, and it just turned Ramazith's head slightly as a little dust flew.

With a furious grunt the wizard turned and bucked, slamming Alora into a bookcase and knocking it over. Another slam and a sharp turn, and the halfling's fingers started slipping from his hair. He managed to grab her cloak then, half-shrugging and half-flinging her off of his shoulders and through the air.

Even as Alora flew she managed to flip, landing upright atop a nearby desk, springy as a cat. The mage followed her with fury in his eyes, blood dribbling through cracks in the protective layer of stone that covered his head, and he snarled out a string of arcane words like a curse. Red lights ignited on his fingertips, leaping and streaking through the study and towards Alora.

But even before Ramazith had started casting, Alora had skipped off the desk and dashed under a table, and as the buzzing bolts of arcane energy sought her out she wove around, over, under and through every obstacle she could find; scampering around table legs and under chairs. She vanished around a bookcase next, a shove from her passing hand toppling it over behind her.

_ Wait, can you actually evade magic missiles?  _ Imoen found herself wondering. Alora was certainly trying, though a high-pitched yelp she let out a second or two later made it clear she hadn't been wholly successful.

The golden glow from the corner of the room blocked out the spot where Alora had retreated, stinging Imoen's eyes as the source of the light stepped forward. Not just gold – there were flashes of red as well; holes of furnace-fire that peaked out between the rays of sunlight.

Abela.

Abela was the source of it all, no longer timid, no longer cowering. A transformation had come over her, and she walked with surety and purpose, withered bark-skin lit from within and glowing like a glade in the hour before a sunset. Where the bark had fallen away to reveal dark, smooth patches, a fire burned as well: the red glow of cinders – the smoldering light of a burned forest.

The lights commingled and competed, red swelling and growing as another damaged leaf of gold flaked and fell away; more with each step. Abela had tossed the elven cloak aside, chin high, back straightened, each step taken with poise and precision as the glamor hanging about her grew and grew.

Red and gold; cinders and sunlight, dancing and flowing. Abela seemed to walk without haste, yet one moment she was on the other side of the room and the next she was right in front of Ramazith, before the mage even seemed to take it all end or react. Somehow her glow and her motions made time and distance fuzzy.

Imoen was certainly having trouble following. And that light! It was really stinging now, all her vision filling with fire and sun, her eyelids struggling against the magic that locked them in place as she fought to squint.

Alora's attack had knocked Ramazith to his knees, and now Abela's slender fingers grasped the kneeling mage's silk shirt with surprising strength, and _forced_ him to look upon her. His jaw slackened, the fury drained from his face, and his eyes widened and glinted, suddenly awed. Gold and red merged now and became white.

Like sunlight on snow, filling everything. Blinding!

Muscles suddenly quivering to life, Imoen gulped in a breath and slid off the table she had been propped against. When she hit the floor she curled up, shutting her eyes tight and pressing a numb arm over them for good measure. The afterimage of Abela still danced before her though, the bald nymph's features cut like a diamond as her eyes burned with pure white wrath.

As she huddled she heard Ramazith angrily shout something, and it felt as if the pressure in the room suddenly shifted drastically. Something welling up – then came a deep crack and a loud _BOOM._ Imoen couldn't help but glance up past the spots in her vision, in time to see the ragdoll form of Abela fly across the library and crash into a wall, where she tumbled and slumped

_ Ack!  _ Imoen tried to stand, a sharp ache in her head and every limb violently protesting. She managed to snatch up her dagger though, turning towards Ramazith, who-

-had his head tilted back, staring off at nothing, his eyes bereft of color. "What have you _done_!?" the mage snarled.

"Justice, it looks like," Coran quipped as he slipped in behind Ramazith, both daggers up and ready to stab. "And a lot less than you did to _her._ "

The panic on Ramazith's face cleared, turning to a resolved scowl. "I make no apologies," he snarled, head back. Listening.

Imoen took a cautious step to the side, circling in towards the mage but ready to dodge any-which-way. Even wounded, blinded, and running low on spells, Ramazith sure seemed to be a pragmatic devil.

"You've no idea the fortune in spell components that creature carries around on her," the mage went on. His hands were out and open, ready to cast. "Her hide could be used to sew garments that are proof against all forms of magical fear. Her heart and blood are keys to forging items of command."

_ Don't do it you idiot. He wants you to- _

"Not to mention that her nether bits-"

"You bastard!" Coran shouted, and Ramazith's smirk just grew as he spun and barked out a spell. A ray of scorching flame streaked from his fingertip, singing Coran's vest as he ducked and dodged aside. The mage seemed to anticipate the movement, and the ray followed, the books and parchment on a nearby shelf bursting into flames where it passed.

Luckily Coran managed to keep low, and the spell streaked just over his head, scorching a second bookshelf. Imoen shuddered slightly as she watched and silently marched forward.

_ If he hadn't been blinded…  _ But now she was right behind the mage. Unnoticed.

She lunged and stabbed all in one motion, blade screeching as it cut through the stony protections Ramazith still wore. This time they did him little good; the dagger sank to the hilt and the mage's legs instantly bowed and went limp, arm flopping and spraying fire everywhere. With one hand Imoen struggled to grab the mage's arm and hold it steady, her other twisting the dagger as hard as she could.

It seemed she had stabbed the right spot though, judging by the way Ramazith folded up and the convulsions swiftly spent themselves. It wasn't until the flames sputtered out, however, that she finally let go.

Looking up from the limp mage's body, she saw that Abela had straightened up, apparently still alive. The flames were spreading rapidly too, dancing from bookshelf to bookshelf.

"Uh…" Imoen muttered in the general direction of the fire and her friends, Alora crawling out from the spot she had dived to and Coran patting his burnt vest. "You may want to snatch up everything you can. Because-" She cringed and turned her head as a burst of cinders went spinning up from the floor and threatened to get in her hair. _Gods_ , this place was such a firetrap. Ramazith must have only used the scorching spell because it was the last thing he had left.

She gave the dead mage a quick search ( _Nice amulet. And he seemed to wear a magic ring too,_ ) and the other two thieves went about ransacking the study as well, picking up every gem and knickknack that looked to be worth something and hastily stuffing the objects into their bags, along with some of the spell-scrolls that weren't on fire (portable and valuable things, those.) While they did that, Imoen rushed to the nearest window and got to work on the warding traps, and the latch.

In contrast to their bustling, Abela stood straight and still in the center of the room. A gentle sweep of her head surveyed the corpse of her tormentor and the growing flames, and every graceful motion shed more and more of her withered skin. "A cleansing fire," the nymph remarked to herself over the crackling, her voice now melodic; the rawness gone. "To burn away the ugliness. Good."

"Yup," Imoen agreed absently, finding a chain of tiny glyphs on the windowsill and making it evaporate with a pinch of powder, before teasing the window fully open. "Just so long as we aren't cleansed with it."

Abela didn't seem to hear. A turn of her heel, and she glared down into the milky eyes of Ramazith's corpse. "And good that _he_ shall be consumed with it!" She seemed to shiver and lose her poise slightly, head shaking, voice transforming, more flakes of gold falling to floor. Even with the roar of the gathering flames, Imoen thought she heard a faint _tinking_ sound each time a piece of the nymph hit the floor. It had her looking over, curious.

"An ugly thought," Abela went on, in the voice of the wounded prisoner once again. "I shouldn't…"

"It's understandable," Imoen said. "What he did to you…" _Cutting off pieces. Harvesting tears. Gods!_ "No reason not to be glad."

The nymph drew herself up and took a deep breath, liquid eyes tightening with resolve. Most of the withered bark-like skin on her face had fallen away, and beneath was smooth and black, tinged with red. Not the raw red of bared muscle or tendons either; it was a glow. Cinders. Magma.

"And you're free now," Imoen hastened to add, unease creeping into her voice, along with a cough as she started to taste the spreading smoke. "We just have to get outa here."

"Yes," Abela agreed, taking a deep breath as if the air was pure and clear, the fire that backlit her nothing. "Free. I had…forgotten what that meant." Straightening back to her full height made the last of the clinging bark-skin crack and flake away – _tink tink tink_ \- taking the last wisp of ragged gossamer that had been clinging to her with it.

Beneath she was all smooth and gleaming obsidian, tinged with caldera-red; stone instead of wood, all magma and no sunlight. Her surfaces rippled with each motion, clear and defined like waves of cooled basalt, the features of her face sharp as volcanic glass. She stood there and she stretched, bald and sharp and whole and nude and terrible and beautiful to behold, the faint glow at her edges bright and burning.

Imoen blinked, afterimages dancing. Then she found herself staring again, transfixed.

Before Imoen could think to look away –try to break the trance– Abela simply inclined her head gracefully and said: "Thank you." The light about her danced and grew, a white-hot glow replacing the red; the very air yawning open.

Barely visible beyond the brightness of the conjured portal, Imoen thought she saw streaks of pink and violet bundled up by spiraling clouds. The crackle and roar of the burning bookcases mixed with birdsong, and through the gate strange forms seemed to bob along on delicate wings, their outlines briefly cutting off the streaks of sunlight that were shining through.

A gateway to world of the fey, Imoen guessed; the strange space through which creatures like Abela could walk. The nymph turned towards it, taking a step through the portal. Then she paused, glancing over her shoulder, and over the growing glow Imoen thought she could see a wicked, renewed life in her eyes. "I'd offer you a lock of my hair," the nymph said, pointing a finger at her head, unabashed, "but well…you can see."

Then she laughed; bells chiming with irony and mirth. A few more steps through the portal, then it collapsed, and there were only flames.

_ Uh. Did we just accidently release something...dangerous?  _ Imoen wondered. But there was no time to think further on that; they were all coughing now, the whole chamber lit by a wicked orange glow and smoke rolling steady along the ceiling.

With the last of the wards stripped away, inside and out, Imoen shoved the leaded glass wide open and wriggled through the narrow window, out onto the wider pagoda roof. Her companions slipped out right behind her, and for a moment they coughed and tried to draw in a few good lungfuls of clean air.

Poor Alora looked rather beat up, her clothes torn and a red welt covering one cheek, but she only moved with a little stiffness, and when Coran asked if she'd be able to climb down she gave him an offended look and said: "Well 'course I can!"

It was an easy enough matter, as it turned out, to climb down from one tiered rooftop to the next, each one slightly wider and easier to navigate. Especially easy for Imoen, since she had a _spider climb_ spell ready for exactly this part.

There had certainly been some strange twists and turns, but in the end the three thieves made it down to the street and hit the stones running, wrapped up in their cloaks and doing all they could to avoid the eyes of curious onlookers who may have spotted the burning tower. Thankfully no sort of authorities seemed to have arrived yet, and they met no one as they zipped through the maze of back alleys that would eventually lead, roundabout, to the door of the Three Old Kegs.

Long before that –a good three turns short by Imoen's estimation– a figure swung out of the darkness to meet them: tall, lit harshly by the bobbing magelight he had conjured, and huffy as ever, his hands hidden by his sleeves. "I see that despite your pretenses of 'tact' and 'stealth,'" Edwin noted, with a nod in the direction of the tower, "everything ended with fiery explosions anyway. A pity I was not there."

"To blast that impertinent mage yerself?" Imeon asked, bending over a bit to catch her breath. She stole a few glances over her shoulder. Would the Fist be searching already? Probably not. And Ashura, Garrick and Xan were here anyway, just behind the red wizard, Viconia leaning against a wall a little farther away, in the shadows. In theory they had all been waiting to kick in the front door of the tower, spells blazing and swords swinging and crossbow thumping, in the case of everything going to the Abyss and Imoen calling on them with her enchanted mirror. In practice the damn paralysis spell had nixed that option.

"Just so," Edwin agreed. "You heard what that presumptuous fop attempted on me, did you not?! A charm spell! To a guest under his roof, no less!"

Imoen let out a tired chuckle. _Yeah, you sure had it rough._ "A guest who was attempting to steal something out from under his nose."

"Irrelevant!" Edwin snarled. "He did not know."

Shaking her head and pushing past the Thayan, Imoen kept walking. "In any case, we should sort things out someplace farther away from a burning wizard's tower."

Edwin towered over her still as she took quick steps towards the relative safety of the inn, his shadow falling over her, thanks to his magelight. _Just no bloody concept of stealth!_

"That's all fine and good," Edwin stated, holding out an expectant hand, "but what of my book?"

"Ya ya ya," Imoen muttered as they walked side by side, still trying to scuttle as fast from the site of the disaster as she could. Reaching into her bag, she slid the thick, gold-embroidered tome out.

Edwin gleefully took it with both hands, and as Imoen handed it over she got a good look at the cover, extravagant lettering threaded with gold and gleaming in the conjured light. She bit her lip, heart sinking, and Edwin stopped in his tracks as well, peering down at the cover critically.

There, stitched in extravagant but clear Thorass script, were the words: _'The Full and Tangled History of the Nether Scrolls,_ _by Aldanon the Absent-Minded.'_

Imoen's hand shot up and clamped against her mouth before she could let out the series of curses that came to mind. _Mask's forked tongue! It's the wrong book!_

Meanwhile Edwin was turning the tome over in his hands, lips twisting this way and that appraisingly. Then, to Imoen's shock, those lips quirked up into a fox-like smile. "Yes," Edwin stated in a low voice. "This will do. Perhaps more than do. (What a fascinating subject matter. Far more useful than meditation techniques.)"

"But…it's not the book…" Imoen stammered.

A slight, allowing nod. "As I told you (as if you were paying attention,) Ramazith has a fine collection of rare and expensive books. (Or he _had_ one at least. A shame about the fire, and that you lacked the wit to snatch more of his collection up.)"

"So you just cared about…" Imoen's eyes widened and then she snapped her fingers, everything clicking into place. "You just wanted a book that would get you into Candlekeep! That's what this is all about."

Slipping the tome under his robe, Edwin nodded. "Not that it's any business of yours, but that is a fine and well-educated guess. Perhaps you're not quite as stupid as you look."

Next he adjusted his robes a little, straightening up. "A pleasure doing business with you. _Siltir varak – keev._ " There was a slight waver and a _woos_ h as air rushed in to occupy the space where the red wizard had just been. And with that he was gone.

* * *

The headquarters of the Flaming Fist Mercenary Company managed to appear grand, imposing, and pristine all at once; a squat hexagonal fortress of sturdy stone, with evenly placed battlements and slanted red-slate roofs atop the inner keep. Twelve-foot long banners hung from the clean granite walls, their fields the same even shade of red as the rooftops, and the sigil within displaying the hand and flame that Imoen had seen on many a guardsman's chest piece throughout the city and beyond.

Four sets of wooden stocks were set up on prominent display just before the gates of the fortress, empty save for one that held some poor sod, wrists and neck bound, dirt caked into his face and the frayed rags that he wore. The prisoner shivered miserably in the cool autumn air, and though his face was mostly covered by disheveled hair Imoen couldn't help but think that she recognized him from the Thieves' House, and found herself wondering how hard it would be to open the contraption up without anyone noticing.

A little to the west of the fortress the street opened onto a broad courtyard, a grey stone fountain in the center where white foam gushed perpetually into the air. Beyond, against the city wall, stood a plain wooden structure that Imoen guessed was a gallows, though there were no nooses attached to the broad overhead beam at the moment.

Instead a fat little gnome in rumpled red robes and a feathered hat stood upon the platform, waving his arms as he preached to a tiny crowd of smirking day-laborers and bored-looking guards. Before Imoen and Xan reached the gates of the Fist compound and entered, they caught a bit of the little guy's enthusiastic sermon: something about how Cyric had personally declared the gnome the ruler of all the cosmos. The crowd jeered and taunted him as he prattled, but he seemed to ignore that.

Once they had passed through the gates of the fortress and the preaching had fallen away, Xan stopped, taking a deep breath and looking ahead with a great deal of dread. The look on his face made him appear more like an elf about to march to his own execution, rather than a business call.

Shaking her head slightly, Imoen spoke up. "The Flaming Fist Mercenary Company!" she announced, blurting out what first popped into her mind, in an attempt to distract her boyfriend. "They act a bit more like a government than mercenaries, don't they? Guess they started out small and stumbled into this big, permanent contract for the city? Or something."

Xan gave her an incredulous, sidelong look.

"It's got me thinking," she went on. "We need a spiffy name for our mercenary company too, don't we? Best if it covers our big, unifying theme too. Though…hrm." She scrunched her face up in thought.

"We have a unifying theme?" Xan asked as he began to walk forward, a bit less ill-at-ease.

"None that I can think of." Imeon giggled. "We've got what? A drow priestess, a sweetly naïve bard, an elven detective, two ferocious sword-ladies, a halfling T-word who helps part-time, and a sex-crazed woodsy elf? And whatever I am, of course." She shook her head. "We can't exactly call ourselves _The Order of the Randomly-Collected, Dangerous Misfits,'_ now can we?"

"Why not?" Xan asked, deadpan. "It seems apt."

"Well yeah, but it just wouldn't distinguish us from all those other little mercenary bands, now would it? We at least need a unifying color scheme. Maybe if I could get the others to dress in violet like you, me and Alora…"

The inside of the fortress was lit by torchlight and a few narrow, slotted windows, and at first they traveled down a long hallway that emptied out into a broader vault of mortared stone. Thick walls, solid and dark; this seemed a true castle, and reminded Imoen a bit of the interior towers at Candlekeep. Or the Watcher's barracks.

_ Oh. That's different though.  _ In addition to side-passages there were quite a few barred doors through which tiny prison cells were visible. Only one was occupied: a weathered old man in rags sat upon the wooden slat that served as a bed. "Sheesh," Imoen whispered. "We walked right into the dungeon?"

Xan shrugged, his voice low as well. "I suspect that this is where they hold rowdy drunks and other undesirables who are making a nuisance of themselves, to be tossed out the next day. The true dungeons are deeper within."

There were armored folks as well, looking bored at their posts in front of branching hallways. Xan approached one of the soldiers, who gave the elf a suspicious look. "I need to speak with Commander Scar," the Greycloak explained.

"What for?" the guard growled back.

"Greycloak business. I have had dealings with him in the past."

The soldier rolled his eyes, but he did turn and shuffle down the hall, and Xan watched him go with arms crossed over his chest, fretting. "Scar was eager to work with me, last time," the elf muttered, voice low. "And met me out here. What could have changed in the weeks that we were out in the countryside?"

"Like I told ya," Imoen whispered back. "It's probably nothing, and Scar will explain and sort it all out in a minute. You just get all worked up with dread _way_ too easy."

Unfortunately they were left standing there, waiting, for quite some time, and she watched Xan fidget a bit as the poor elf's trepidation just grew and grew. _Eventually_ the guard they had pestered returned. Alone.

"Scar said he didn't know of any Greycloak," the man told them with a bored shrug. "And that he's not to be disturbed. Sorry."

Xan's eyes widened, then narrowed considerably, and he took a step forward. "Now see here-"

"Hey now," the guard preempted him, one hand going to the hilt of his sword, but the other was held up and open in a placating gesture. "I don't like giving petitioners the runaround, but those were the big man's orders. I follow 'em. Chain of command and all that shite."

"But something is _very_ wrong here," Xan insisted. "I _have_ met the 'big man' myself. And he is, as you described, very big. Bald as well, with a scar that runs from his right cheekbone to his chin. He carries a belt of throwing hatchets, has a jolly disposition, and he is left-handed. And when last we met he was _extremely_ concerned about the evidence I had brought him regarding the Iron Throne merchant cartel and their slaver operation in the Cloakwood."

The soldier narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to the side, pondering.

"He asked that I assist him in and investigation, finding people who had gone missing through the sewers," Xan continued, "freeing him up to look into the Iron Throne. A task we performed, I will have you know." He gestured towards Imoen. "She slew the oni that was snatching people from the streets herself, and I reported all of this to Scar."

The Fist guard nodded. "Yeah, I remember hearing 'bout that. And the Iron Throne huh? Everyone knows they're closer to a crime syndicate than a merchant house. I didn't know Scar was-"

"That's because he's doing no such thing," a deep, dry voice crackled nearby. The soldier shot to attention and Imoen and Xan turned towards the source: a man with short, dirty-blonde hair, streaks of grey punctuating his close-cropped beard and temples. The sigil of the Fist was stamped upon the breast of the crisp red uniform he wore.

No armor, so Imoen's first guess was that he was some sort of warmage. _Great._

"Commander Dosan!" the soldier barked, saluting.

The commander shot the newcomers a glare, crossing his arms as he stepped closer. "We've looked into this Iron Throne matter," he stated tersely. "And found nothing. So you will stop sowing…" he waved a dismissive hand, "whatever it is you are trying to sow in the ranks of _my_ men. And kindly leave."

"I would first speak with Scar-"

"No," Commander Dosan insisted, in a voice that left no room for questioning. "You will not."

A moment passed in silence as Xan glanced from soldier to commander, then to the doorway, then back again. He took a breath, hands at his side.

"And you will make _no attempt_ ," the commander preempted, "at using your Art here in our fortress, enchanter. There are wards, warmages, and the full force of the Flaming Fist ready to come down on the heads of any who cross us here. Do I make myself clear?"

"You do," Xan admitted, stiff as a board.

"Good." The commander violently stabbed the air with his fingertip, pointing in the direction they had come. "Now go!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical note: while writing this chapter I listened to an enormous amount of Chelsea Wolfe, namely her album 'Pain is Beauty.'


	63. Fourth Interlude - The Puppeteer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Rieltar Anchev plays his game, and gets outplayed

For the moment the only sound to be heard in the study was the furious _scratch-scratch-scratch_ of Rieltar Anchev's quill as it attacked the parchment before him. Deep, long strokes that risked injuring the paper; as if the coded orders he was scrawling would win battles that sword-arms and spells had failed at. A foolish notion, perhaps, but at the moment he felt the need to attack _something._ And perhaps these instructions to Naaman and Wallen would help to salvage this situation, and insure that _some_ meager profit could be squeezed out of it.

Rieltar paused a moment, scowling and twirling the ink-stained feather between his fingers.

An unbecoming thought. Weak. Foolish. Defeatist.

There were still profits to be made, despite the series of frustrating setbacks they had recently encountered. True, most of the stockpile they had been counting on from the Cloakwood was now underwater, and trade on the roads had been freed up far too early. But at the moment steel and iron were still ludicrously expensive, and the Iron Throne continued to hold all of the best contracts, both with the Grand Dukes, the Flaming Fists and the crafts guilds (Save the most important of them: the Blacksmith's Guild. The damned Merchants League held old ties there.)

Once again Rieltar dipped his pen and continued to scrawl, conspicuously ignoring the courier who stood on the other side of the desk, fidgeting. It always helped when the lackeys were a little uncomfortable. She could wait.

Not to mention that it would do some good to keep the other two appointments for the morning waiting as well. Especially Nortuary, the furious representative sent by the higher-ups in Sembia. The man had stormed into the tower last night making demands and trying to brush his way past the guards and underlings, much to Rieltar's annoyance. It seemed a demonstration of who was truly in command here in the west was in order.

As was his custom these days, Rieltar held court in his study on the highest level of the tower, sitting in a high-backed chair and backlit by a great window that overlooked the bay. It seemed royal enough, but it was not his preference: he would have rather been giving orders on the move as he prowled through the offices. Better that way to see how things were actually organized and functioning, on the ground. And it was always best to keep the subordinates on their toes.

But the office suite was thoroughly warded against scrying, and absolute secrecy was the most important order of the day. You can't exactly orchestrate a grand conspiracy out in the open, now can you?

Frowning down at his letter, Rieltar added a few more flourishing strokes, lighter now.

_ Yes. Calm yourself.  _

So long as he could steer this little venture towards a steady conclusion, he could see how it would end with a decent windfall. Five times what that idiot Thaldorn could have racked up in a year of 'trading,' at least. The shame was that when first conceived this scheme was supposed to set the Anchevs up for a _generation_. To secure a legacy.

Glancing up from his papers, Rieltar looked past the courier and over to his son. Sarevok –the big bald ox– leaned against the fireplace, clad in a fine leather jacket and clothes custom-tailored to fit his broad frame. A mildly amused smirk played at the corners of the boy's mouth as he used a poker to stir the embers in the hearth, eyes fixed on the dancing flames.

He always seemed to have that look these days, even with all their recent setbacks. Such a spoiled boy (thanks to his damn mother.) Acting as if the luxury he lived in had simply always been and would always be; no concept of how precarious their position really was. Why, recently, when Rieltar was raging over the disaster on the Amnish border, the boy had even ventured to say: 'It may be for the best, father. Mulahey had proven dangerously incompetent anyway. I'm sure it will all work out.'

_ Bah!  _ Nothing ever just _works out._ You have to _make_ it work. A boy who came from dirt should know that.

A shame really. When Rieltar first found the boy in Scornubel, nine-years-old and leading the roughest gang of youths on Far Rider Street, he had seemed like the ideal heir. Clever, charismatic, and tough; already a killer and ordering larger boys around. Rieltar had been impressed.

And beyond that talent the boy had also possessed something very rare in this part of the world: the slightly flattened features and dark skin of folk from Turmish, just like Rieltar and his wife, who had never been able to conceive. A little work spreading rumors about their child's cloistered youth (the story was that they had sent him to a secret temple of Mask) and the boy passed well enough as their trueborn son. Too bad Trellia had later spoiled the boy, and put fool notions in his head as she grew bitter.

Still, Sarevok knew the family business well enough, and when they needed a Heavy there was none better. Rieltar just doubted, these days, that the boy had the vision needed to actually steer things. To lead. Better for one of his seasoned lieutenants to inherit the organization, sad as it was to contemplate. Perhaps Brunos.

Rieltar's eyes slid briefly to the last occupant of the room, besides courier and his son. Sarevok's woman reclined on a velvet couch close to the fireplace, sandaled-feet crossed, green dress ruffled, and golden hair spilling down where her head rested against a plush cushion. Perhaps she was a poor influence on the boy as well: between her pose and her expression Cythandria looked the quintessential bored-rich-girl. Still, for a highborn the conjuress wasn't averse to getting her hands dirty, and she had never voiced displeasure about the bodyguarding role she played on days like this one. And at least she was better than that mercenary-girl from the Far East that Sarevok used to spend his time with; the one who fumbled with Heartland tongues and had nothing to her name.

Blowing on the ink of the letter he had just written, Rieltar finally rolled it up and handed it over to Dhanial, and the courier was eager to snatch it up. "Deliver that to Namaan, on your way out," he instructed the woman as he reached into his desk and pulled out a small packet wrapped in dun-brown paper. "Then I want this delivered directly into Kestor's hand. No one else is to touch it. Am I clear?"

Dhanial nodded. "Crystal clear. The silk and spice merchant, right? Works out of the Merchant's League."

Rieltar nodded. "Aye. You'll most likely find him at his estate." When no further orders were given Dhanial turned on her heels and walked out of the study, eager to deliver.

_ The silk and spice merchant.  _ Rieltar chuckled to himself. 'Master Smuggler' was a more apt description, as far as he was concerned. He had been loath to deal with the Knights of the Shield (the secret society Kestor owed his true allegiance to,) up until now, but there seemed to be no alternative. To meet the Flaming Fist's quota next season they would need a fresh supply of iron, and the smugglers could provide it discreetly. Wrangling a good deal out of them though…now that would be a challenge.

And speaking of challenges…

The moment the study's door creaked open a large man tried to shoulder his way in, pushing past both Dhanial and the nondescript guard stationed at the doorway. He managed to twist his way through and set foot inside the room, but the moment he did Sarevok was between him and the desk, looming close, a half-head taller and far broader than the intruder.

With a huff the man tried to shout his way past the bodyguard. "Rieltar! Order your living wall here out of my way immediately! We've urgent business." His warbling Sembian accent was light, at least.

"On whose authority?" Rieltar growled right back. He knew full well, but he intended to show this Nortuary fellow exactly who the master was in _this_ tower.

"Maready's. He's heard some very unsettling rumors about your _questionable_ operations out here in the west. Operations you've told us very little about. Selgaunt demands answers, and I plan on delivering them as swiftly as possible."

"Questionable operations?"

Nortuary huffed again. "Order this brute out of my way. We talk face to face! Like men."

Rolling his eyes, Rieltar snapped his fingers and Sarevok silently stepped aside. The emissary from Selgaunt wasted no time after that, marched right up to the desk and planting his hands upon its surface to lean in, meeting Rieltar's eyes. He was a heavy fellow, with the sort of chunky build that spoke of muscle beneath; no doubt some thug who had worked his way up through the ranks. The man seemed to know how to take full advantage of his bulk as well: body stiff, eyes sharp and menacing, leaning forward as much as he physically could.

The usual posturing. Rieltar had seen it all before. On a daily basis really.

Despite paper-thin pretenses at being a merchant guild, the Iron Throne had always been –at its heart– a criminal syndicate. So the ranks were full of the sort of men (and a few women who played the game twice as hard, like their devil-spawned mistress,) for whom jockeying for position, puffing their chests out, and stomping down violently on competition came as easy as breathing. That was one of the reasons Rieltar wished he was up and moving at the moment, rather than being trapped behind his desk. Body language could be more important than skill or actual accomplishments in a den of swaggering bravos.

Well, he'd just have to assert his authority in some other manner. He was tempted to do it in the form of a _scorching ray_ spell right in this obnoxious man's face, but held back.

"And by 'questionable operations,'" Nortuary went on, "I mean things like starting a bloody _war_! That's what Maready thinks you're doing out here, and he's _not_ pleased. Especially since he had to hear about it all third-hand. If you had bothered to ask-"

"Bah!" Rieltar waved a dismissive hand, once again resisting the urge to add a blast of arcane fire for good measure. "Are we the Highmoon Trading Coster now? Am I to forward all proposals to the central office and wait for them to sign off in triplicate before taking action? I thought the Throne valued initiative?"

Not the real reason he had been spare with details, and they both knew it. But Rieltar couldn't exactly come out and say 'I wanted all the money for myself,' nor could this agent from the east admit that his boss just wanted to exact as large a cut as possible for something he contributed nothing to. So they had to play this game.

"Initiative is all well and good, but a _war_ between Baldur's Gate and Amn-"

"There will be no war!" Rieltar snapped, taking the opportunity to rise to his feet. _Time to put him on his toes._

"I've been working hard behind the scenes to _prevent_ one, in fact. I am well aware that war can be extremely bad for business. Armies roaming around confiscating whatever they please. Trade routes disrupted. Crops destroyed or left untended. Starvation and disease. All of that. Great fortunes have certainly been built on war: on conquest itself or simply moving in at the right time after great upheaval. But what I've been doing here isn't that kind of stupid gamble."

Nortuary opened his mouth to speak, but Rieltar launched in to cut him off. "What we have here on the Coast is a perfect _cold_ war brewing. I've put a lot of work into it. And cold wars...those are always profitable. Banking on tension and suspicion between neighbors while you supply them with arms. It's tried and true."

Nortuary snorted. "Hrmph. You can't control-"

"Oh, I am _quite_ in control of every piece on this board." Rieltar tapped the table for emphasis. "The Fist. The merchant houses. Even the Grand Dukes and the Amnish." An exaggeration of course. Beyond the Amnish border his spies were stretched thin, and though he had agents firmly in place with the Fist and the Seven Suns he had not yet moved the one meant to infiltrate the staff of the Grand Dukes or the other great merchant house.

But Rieltar was fairly certain he had a means of cowing this man, at least. And taking another vital step forward, all at once. "And I intend to prove it." He gestured towards an empty, cushioned chair near the far wall. "Sit in on my next appointment and I'll show you."

The big man scowled, arms crossed and glaring, but he did silently move aside. What choice did he have? He was here to gather information. He even took a seat, though he complained as he did. "If this ends up costing us, or worse, exposing…"

"Just watch," Rieltar commanded, waving his hand and once again fighting the urge to tack a spell onto the gesture. Perhaps a _silence_ spell? But the emissary fell silent all on his own, reserving his judgment.

Sitting down again and leaning back, Rieltar looked over to the nondescript guard who stood at the door. "You. Fetch that representative from the Merchant League, would you?"

With an expressionless nod the guard turned, opened the door with a minute creak (Rieltar preferred to keep the hinges unoiled. An old underworld trick) and slipped out.

A moment later the door opened again and a well-dressed man with a commanding air made his entrance. He seemed oblivious to the tension in the room, casually glancing at Sarevok and Cythandria by the fireplace and Nortutary against the desk before fixing his eyes on the Master of the Tower and giving him a familiar nod, despite the fact that Rieltar had never met the man in his life.

The newcomer was short, squarish and middle aged, with immaculately groomed muttonchops and slickly combed brown hair. A take-charge sort of fellow, no hair out of place, and the well-cut black silks he wore showed the subtle signs (threaded lines in colors a shade too vivid for ordinary dye) of enchantment. In addition the pouches at the man's belt were the sort used to carry spell components. Obviously a mage.

"Zorl was it?" Rieltar asked from across the desk, affecting a bored tone.

The man gave another nod and a friendly smile as he marched forward and extended a hand, and when he spoke his voice rang with the faux good-cheer of a career dealmaker. "I am indeed, and pleased to make your acquaintance. Zorl Miyar, here on behalf of the Merchant's League."

When Rieltar remained seated and just looked at the outstretched hand Zorl half-shrugged and dropped it. A pregnant silence followed, the faces of Sarevok, the guard, Nortuary, and even Cythandria a stony contrast to Zorl's good-natured grin.

Looking out of place but not showing the least bit of discomfort, Zorl plowed ahead. "Guess you'd prefer to skip the pleasantries then," he observed with glance about the room. "Or perhaps you already know why I'm here?"

Rieltar forced a slight smile onto his face. "To offer your terms of surrender?"

"Ha! Hardly!" The merchant waved an open hand. "Though I'll admit that the rumor floating around that you're about to swallow up the Suns has the League nervous. How did you do it exactly? Their collapse was _quite_ spectacular. And unexpected."

Rieltar narrowed his eyes and cocked his head. "How did I do what? Far as I know it was all their own _fool_ decisions. Investments in linseed oil, was it?" A snort. "And a trade-fleet to Maztica during the storm season. Idiots." He waved a hand. "And I put no stock in rumors. We have no plans to 'swallow up' anything."

"Of course," Zorl teased, his voice sly. "Your clashes with the Suns, followed by their sudden collapse are pure coincidence." His tone changed, suddenly growing less sarcastic. "In any case, I think you'll find that the League is far more _stable_ and formidable than those fat bean-counters over on Pearl Street. Most of our ranks are nobility. Old money. Men of quality and longstanding alliances, who have no patience for being pushed or ordered about."

_ Ah. And here comes the speech he was sent to deliver. _

"Now, I know from where you're standing you might see a clear path towards muscling us out of the arms trade. Maybe all trade. But I can assure you that we're quite entrenched. We've been a force in this city far longer than you, and we still hold longstanding agreements with the blacksmiths and alchemists guilds, not to mention that the Harbormaster's daughter is one of our councilmembers." Zorl was poking his fingertips now, ticking things off. "And despite the bandit troubles this season you'll find we still have _quite_ a few caravans running in top shape."

The merchant paused briefly, perhaps expecting an angry retort, but all he got was stony silence as Rieltar rubbed a finger against his temple and adjusted the circlet that rested there.

Zorl took a breath and went on, his smile returning. "But instead of squabbling over iron and guilds and trade routes and all that tedious drivel, wouldn't an arrangement between our organizations be far more advantageous? New blood and old-"

_ Ah. The sales pitch.  _ "So you've come to negotiate an arrangement?" Rieltar interrupted.

With nod, Zorl reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a square of parchment bound in black ribbon. "Indeed. We in the League see where the tide is flowing, and I think you'll find this proposal quite agreeable."

Pinching his eyes shut as if he had a headache, Rieltar lifted the circlet up and off of his brow. _Do it now._

"What happened with the Seven Suns _did_ rattle us quite a bit," the merchant went on, the packet held out over the desk. "And we're well aware of how extensive your operations have grown. I think you'll find these figures to be quite a bargain." Behind him the guard who had been standing in the doorway began to walk forward, not making a sound.

_ Quite outrageous, more likely.  _ This was a salesman making an opening offer, after all. Fierce negotiations were meant to follow: arguments and dinners over wine, cycles of haggling and late nights hammering out details. The process usually took weeks, with lots of forced politeness, subterfuge and playacting. The usual business between merchant guilds.

Fortunate then, that Rieltar did not do business that way.

Leaning forward slightly, Rieltar kept his eyes focused tightly on Zorl and the papers in his hand, resisting the urge to glance up at the figure that now loomed behind the merchant. _Look bored._ Though of course Rieltar couldn't help but rest his fingers against the pouch where he kept his spell components. This _was_ a mage standing before him after all, though he guessed that Zorl was a middling dabbler. Not the sort clever, powerful, or paranoid enough to prepare _contingencies_ or metamagically silenced spells.

But he'd only know for sure when-

The face of the guard who had crept just behind Zorl dissolved into flowing mercury, and his hands were just as much of a blur as they smoothly descended – then yanked violently back. Sunlight caught the thin, taut filament of wire between those hands just before it cut into the front of Zorl's neck.

Quicksilver-swift, the hands wound the wire around and around, twisting it tight as Zorl managed one startled rasp, his hands waving before him and the parchment flying away. He seemed to be searching for something to steady himself with, not yet understanding what was happening. Then realization dawned in his bulging eyes, and he turned and reached back, fingers fumbling at the wire, shoulders twisting and struggling as the slender, faceless man behind him held tight.

No _contingencies_ bloomed. No silent spells came flying off the tips of Zorl's fingers. The mage seemed as helpless as any other man now, soundlessly choking as he kicked and squirmed, face a depending shade of red and eyes growing bloodshot. Rieltar sat back and watched the scene critically, sparing just a brief glance over at Nortuary.

The bluster had left the big man, and he looked predictably shocked. _Good._ Sometime when Rieltar hadn't been looking Nortuary had also produced and donned a pair of spiked knuckles with small punch-blades at the edges, raising them between himself and the transformed guard.

For a tense stretch of time there was no noise to speak of in the study beyond the crackling of the flames and the harsh rustle of Zorl's silks as he struggled and kicked. The assassin's flowing face had resolved now; gray, smooth, and featureless save a pair of wide, amber eyes, the gambeson it had been wearing hanging loosely on the creature's slender form. In a few moments his (or rather its,) victim's struggles had dropped to twitches and convulsions, silks barely whispering, and it was then that Nortuary finally found his voice.

"What have you _done_?" he snarled at Rieltar, one bladed fist waving in the direction of the creature that held Zorl upright. "That's…that's a…"

"Yes it is," Rieltar agreed, smirking. "And what I've 'done' is insure the best possible deal we can get when we consolidate with the Merchant's League. Just as we will with the Seven Suns." He looked over at the doppelganger, its face beginning to flow once again. "Isn't that right?"

Gray-silver flesh glinted, expanded, and grew blemishes and a slightly ruddy tone, tightening into a perfect likeness of the man the creature had just killed, right down to the muttonchops that sprouted on its (or rather his) cheeks.

"That's right," the transformed creature replied in a perfect imitation of Zorl's voice, unwrapping the wire and letting the still body slump forward. There was a thunk as Zorl's head struck the desk, then his corpse gracelessly slid to the carpet. The doppelganger wasted no time lifting it by the shoulders and dragging it into the adjacent bedroom.

Sarevok had been watching impassively by the fireplace, and now he rested his hand on the crossguard of the massive greatsword he had left leaning against the wall. Cythandria was sitting up close by, her fingers linked in her lap, and both of them had their eyes fixed on Nortuary.

He had to have noticed. His eyes were constantly bouncing about the room. Rieltar could see the mental calculation at work: those spiked knuckles against that sweeping sword, those muscles, the woman who was making it _very_ clear that she had spells ready. Not to mention the shapeshifting thing in the next room.

A few moments later the new 'Zorl' emerged, dressed fully in his black silken outfit and jewelry, and with the same blustering gait that the merchant had used to enter the room the doppelganger walked across the lavish carpets, over to the door, then turned and gave Rieltar a jovial smile. It was just as faked as Zorl's had been.

Once the creature had left Nortuary let out a shudder and shook his head. "A doppelganger. What madness!"

"Doppelgangers," Rieltar corrected. "An entire clan of them, out of the underworks beneath Durlag's Tower. We are placing them in key positions throughout the city's major merchant guilds. And elsewhere. Like I said, nothing is being left to chance. There will be no accidental war, and no upset to my plans. There can't be. Not when I've stacked every side with my own pawns."

That was a massive exaggeration of course. But the doppelgangers really _were_ useful tools. "You can tell Selgaunt that."

"Mask's tongue," Nortuary cursed. "You can't trust those things. They'll turn-"

"They will obey me," Rieltar stated flatly. "So long as only I know where their infant broodmother is being kept." He tapped the circlet at his brow. "And this insures that I remain the only one who knows. They are mind-reading creatures, after all. Quite dangerous. But I have planned for every contingency." A cold glare. "I wonder what more I need to show you, to demonstrate just how much _control_ I have over things here."

He hoped the threat was well-implied. _I could just send a doppelganger back to Selgaunt, you know._

Nortuary glanced off, obviously rattled. "Sfena and Maready won't be pleased by how little you've informed them."

A snort. "I'll try to write home more often. But your report will be positive?"

Nortuary met Rieltar's eyes, then glanced over to Sarevok, looming by the fireplace and causally resting his hand on the crosspiece of his greatsword. "It will be."

He looked as if he was _very_ eager to be away from here. _Good. Now the final push._ "And naturally you will agree to a _geas_ , guaranteeing a fair report?"

That made the emissary bristle, nostrils flaring, pride and practicality waring on his face. Sarevok's hand casually gripped his weapon, and Cythandria was stretching and twiddling her fingers, eyes smiling in Norturary's direction and lips lightly parted. Lips that were obviously ready to launch into a spell.

Nortuary's eyes darted about the room briefly. Then they settled. A deep exhalation of breath. "Sure," he muttered. "Weave your spell. I'm just a messenger anyway."

Rieltar couldn't help but grin as he stood and immediately began the words of the _geas_. Once the binding was complete Nortutary shook a little, and the moment he was dismissed he left the room, not saying another thing. No doubt he would make for Selgaunt as fast as he could.

Once the door was shut Rieltar slid back into his chair and allowed himself a sigh, conscious not to show _too_ much relief. "Well, that's a few things put in order, at least."

"Indeed," Sarevok spoke up. "You've left little to chance."

" _Nothing_ to chance," Rieltar corrected his son. "Chaos would be unacceptable. Especially at this point."

"Of course, father."

"Which brings us to the last order of business, before you two are dismissed."

"The Harper's child?" Sarevok guessed. "One of the best assassins we could find is hunting her as we speak."

"Hunted her and _failed,_ last I heard," Rieltar corrected.

Sarevok grunted, not disagreeing. "She proved surprisingly resourceful. Her father must have trained her. But the lesson was learned, and arrangements have been made."

"No doubt. But if the assassin does fail again, perhaps it would be best if you took a personal hand in this."

Inclining his head, Sarevok's eyes seemed to twinkle. "I wouldn't mind, certainly. Taking things in hand is often the only way to be sure they really get done. And as you say, father, 'nothing to chance.'"

Rieltar's lips tightened a bit. There was something about the boy's tone he did not like. "Just make sure anyone who's been disrupting our plans dies, swiftly."

"Of course, father."

Rieltar scowled down at the pile of papers before him as his son and the conjuress stood and took their leave. He didn't care for the arrogant (borderline insolent even) tone that seemed to creep into his son's voice these days. He would have to devise a way to humble the boy, perhaps a bit like what he had set up with Nortuary. Though there were more important concerns before him at the moment.

–

Several weeks later in a meeting hall in Candlekeep, as a garrote-wire tightened around Rieltar's neck and stole his breath, his last frantic thoughts would be spent trying to guess where he had gone wrong.

Where had he miscalculated? When had he let guard down? Who had he underestimated, to send assassins like these? Where the masters in Sembia acting? Had the Knights of the Shield planned this all along?

Or had it always been-

The woman who was strangling him would then confirm his suspicions, speaking in his ear with a voice that was not a woman's at all: "Sarevok wanted you to die just like her," it would whisper. "He sends his regards, as does The Revealer of the Young, who is now _free_!"

And as he was struggling against the iron grip, helpless as Norturary had been –as Trellia had been when he killed her in exactly this way– Rieltar Anchev would realize that he had greatly misjudged his son.

A part of him would almost be proud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter suddenly became a lot easier to write when I started listening to the theme from The Godfather on an endless loop.
> 
> And a few footnotes:
> 
> Sfena – The half-devil leader of The Iron Throne (and the granddaughter of Asmodues, to boot!)
> 
> Maready – One of Sfena's lieutenants and a highup at the main branch of The Iron Throne in Sembia.
> 
> Selgaunt – The capitol city in Sembia, where the Iron Throne is based.
> 
> The Knights of the Shield – A mafia-like secret society of cutthroat merchants and nobles. Their name makes them sound like a bland order of paladins or something, but I guess that's actually an advantage for an organization like that.
> 
> The Revealer of the Young – The doppelgangers' own word for their broodmother. Though 'broodmother' may be a bit of a misnomer, since it's not female and reproduces asexually. D&D lore seems to be real skimpy/contradictory on how doppelgangers reproduce and how their society works, so I made some stuff up (with a little inspiration from ideas in the third-party 'The Complete Guide to Doppelgangers' sourcebook.)


	64. Fate

** Part Five – Conspiracy **

_ "Divination is the most underrated school of magic. There's just nothing handier than seeing your doom coming and stepping out of the way."  _ -Laspeera Inthre, _Mageduels: A Manual_

* * *

Uktar 7, 1368 D.R.

A scratch and a scuffing sound had Ashura ducking low and tilting her head, eyes cast down so all she could see were her boots and the roughhewn floorboards of the warehouse. There was a pile of coiled ropes between her and the source of the noise, and a stack of haphazardly-placed crates up beyond to the ropes. The crates made for better cover, so she pushed for them, scrambling along with her knuckles and the crossguards of her swords nearly scraping the floor.

Once she had wriggled past some crates she paused, head cocked, and listened. Beyond a few clinks from her chainmail there seemed to be no sound, which she guessed was good.

_ Unless  _ the damn creature had gotten right behind her. But surely it couldn't have moved that fast. That was the good thing about these lizards: those fat bodies and eight stumpy legs made them clumsy. They turned slow as a cow, made even more of a ruckus than cows when they moved, and as long as you could track them by sound and keep your head down and your eyes pointed the other way you were safe.

_ In theory _ at least _._ The lizards did have rows and rows of needlepoint teeth and big jaws. They could deliver a nasty bite, as Shar-Teel would attest to from experience, and the fever that came on afterwards could be even nastier.

On the floor just ahead Ashura caught a glimpse of something stony and grey, out of place amongst the shoddy timber, and she couldn't help but lift her eyes a little and take a peek. Stone toes and feet were bound by leather sandals, and above that threadbare trousers covered the lower half of the statue. A belted smock was draped over its torso, and above that grey arms were raised high and crossing defensively. The entire statue was locked in a poorly balanced, recoiling posture, mouth open and frozen in terror. This was the third petrified laborer Ashura had seen in here so far; a nasty reminder of what would happen if she failed to keep her eyes fixed on the floor and obstacles between her and the creature.

More scuffing on the floorboards, somewhere behind her, and Ashura's eyes widened and darted away from the 'statue' and back down to her boots.

_ Where is it?  _ Close, but not _right_ on her yet. It sounded like the thing might be waddling around the coiled ropes.

Ashura sprang forward and dashed around the petrified man. There were fallen boxes spread out behind him, likely knocked over when he had panicked.

More cover. _Good_. Ashura leapt over the crates and slipped down behind them, fighting the urge to look up and fully ahead. _Supposedly_ there was only one basilisk prowling the warehouse, but she couldn't exactly know for sure. They hadn't even know it _was_ a damn basilisk until they walked in and stumbled upon the first clothed, life-like statue.

Nadarin Coal, the owner of this place, had simply told them that some exotic monster bound for a carnival in Waterdeep had broken out of its crate. 'The Merry Fools said they had an animal bound and magically put to sleep in there,' he had grumbled. 'Should have known it would be something _real_ dangerous. Adventurers! Bah! It got some of my workers, and sent the rest fleeing. A big, magic lizard-thing, far as they could tell. One of 'em said it shot something out of its eyes, but the rest insisted it was some kind of magic breath. A fire drake maybe? Course none of the survivors stuck around long enough to be sure. And when I get ahold of Gorpel Hind and the rest of those idiots…'

They should have realized then that he might have been describing a basilisk, and taken precautions like they had in the past. A potion of _mirror eyes_ would be real handy right now, at the very least.

Another chilling thought: What if that scuffing noise had been made by one of Ashura's companions all along, and fleeing from it would just send her stumbling into a pair of glowing eyes. The four of them had scattered at the first sight of the flicking tail and _way_ too many legs, a few moments ago, and she'd lost track of where the others were.

They needed to coordinate. Couldn't just keep scrambling around.

"Hey!" Ashura shouted. It wasn't like she hadn't been making a racket already. "I think the lizard's on my right! Where's everyone else? We need to get an angle!"

They had managed one of the basilisks on the salt flats east of Beregost this way, when Skie had accidently jumped one of the things and ended up fleeing with her eyes covered, shouting all the while: 'It's behind me! It's right behind me!' Garrick and Imoen had managed to flank the creature and pelt it with arrows, and when it was immobile Ashura and Shar-Teel had finished it off. Sloppier than using _mirror eyes_ or Viconia's ghoulish decoy, but it had worked.

Of course, by shouting Skie had functioned as a decoy, and maybe that wasn't the best-

What had been light scuffling on the floorboards suddenly erupted into a heavy, frantic _scratch-patter_ , knocking crates aside as it thundered closer. A scrape and a terrible, splintering _CRACK_ followed, echoing through the warehouse: the petrified man, toppling and shattering. Next Ashura heard the boxes scatter aside, just behind her now.

_ Nine bloody Hells! _ Shouting had been a _big_ mistake.

Ashura tried to flee, but she'd barely gone two paces when her forehead nearly slammed into a wall. She found herself squatting there, swords out, eyes pinched shut, fighting to urge to turn and take a defensive stance.

_ Lovely choice _ . Whirl around and get an eyeful of petrification, or stay like this and get a piece of your ass bitten off by a giant, charging lizard. Maybe if she stabbed back, blindly…

A clashing, banging, oscillating, _gods_ -awful cacophony that could have made the beasts of Pandemonium jealous sounded somewhere behind both her and the basilisk, shattering any further thoughts. Though even as Ashura cringed and bent forward she found herself grinning a little.

_ Garrick. _ You could always count of him to make the biggest racket of all.

There was a lot of tapping and scratching against the floor nearby, neither getting closer nor farther away. Hopefully it was the creature turning on those eight stumpy legs. The _sound burst_ had started to die down, but another noise rose to take its place: Garrick's voice, a few pitches higher than usual and resonating through the whole warehouse.

"Here, lizard, lizard, lizard!" it shouted. "You wanna' petrify someone? Do ya boy! Come here! Here, lizard, lizard, lizard!"

That seemed to do it. The claw-scratches were definitely receding now, away from the boxes and towards the shouting. Hopefully Garrick was using some sort of magic to throw his voice.

Ashura straightened and stood, eyes still downcast. The thing had its back (well, tail at least) turned to her. She knew it.

Turning, she trampled over the fallen boxes, then past the toppled dockworker with his shattered arms and cracked face. She forced her chin up, dashing faster now, towards the sound those scratching claws; that thundering bulk. Between coils of rope she caught a glimpse of a swishing tail. It was _definitely_ facing away from her for the moment.

Now or never.

A leap and a tap of her foot against the rope pile, and then she was sailing over, the orange scales of the creature coming into view. It was a flat, broad beast with the features of a massive desert lizard mixed with a crocodile, its back bristling with sharp spines along craggy ridges.

And it was the largest basilisk Ashura had yet seen; nearly as broad as a man was tall, and longer still! Too late to back out now though. She plummeted, her armored knees striking needle-spines as her righthand sword came streaking down.

The blade missed both skull and spine, wedging into the meat of the creature's neck, and that made it _mad._ Quills scraped at Ashura's armored thighs, torn chainlinks shedding and flying away as she struggled to hang on and drive her sword deeper.

Worse, the damn lizard was trying to tilt and turn its head, and Ashura caught a glimpse of flickering light before she wrenched her eyes away. _Look at the ceiling! Look at the walls! Anywhere but those eyes!_

She gripped her sword hard as she could, the whole world shifting and bouncing beneath her. _Well I'm not stone yet!_

Blood welled up, dark and sticky, as she tilted her sword forward like a lever and clung on, her other hand held high and bobbing with each pitch and roll of the creature's body. It was bucking hard, trying to throw her or wriggle away from the blade, but four-by-four legs tended to stumble over each other. All it could do was squirm really, where a stallion or a bull would be leaping right now.

Through all the mad slithering Ashura tried to straighten up; to hold her lefthand blade high and steady. _Like a fisher spearing a catch._ A deep breath in, then she stabbed down with all her strength, though it was less a fish and more a massive hunk of writhing fury that she caught with her sword.

The stab didn't seem to slow or weaken the thing (there was so much neck there! Of course she hadn't struck anything vital,) but now she had two levers to grip.

_ Hold on! Hold on!  _ She twisted the blades, fighting with each jerk the creature made.

Then with a sudden jolt the world tipped over, the lamplight was blotted out, and before she could grasp what was happening the back of her head slammed against something hard. Her chest and sides _screamed_ from the pressure, crushed against the floor. The damn thing had _flipped!_

By all rights the weight should have punched the breath from her lungs, maybe knocked her out, but somehow Ashura held on and kept wrestling with the bulk. Perhaps it had been the enchantments in her ring and armor, protecting her from the full impact.

That was what some standoffish, impartial part of her guessed at least, while she was struggling to breathe and keep her head from banging against the floor again and again, along with trying to rock from side to side and push the damn lizard _off!_ Though as all that went on the impartial part of her found itself wondering: ' _Why the bloody Hells do monsters keep falling on me?'_

_ (Because that's what happens when you jump on top of one and stab it, idiot!) _

One moment the creature was wriggling like crazy, then it suddenly went stiff. _Wha-_ Ashura was slammed against the floorboards suddenly, harder than before. Three sharp jerks.

Then…it was all just dead weight pressing her to the floor. She was starting to catch her breath when the mass of blood and spines and scales tipped away and slid off, some goopy things smearing along the floor as it went.

Shar-Teel was standing over her now, one hand holding the dead lizard up on its side and the other gripping a wet blade. Then with a grunt she shoved the carcass over and away. Looked like she had disemboweled the creature while it was belly up, and that had been the end of that.

Panting hard and trying to fling and wipe the blood and viscera off of her, Ashura sat and then gradually wobbled to her feet. "You alright?" Garrick asked, close by, a steadying hand touching her shoulder.

"A little sore. Think I'm intact though," Ashura breathed.

By then Shar-Teel had turned away, walking over to the remains of some broken crates. Squatting down, she started to poke through the debris, pushing aside a few rolls of fabric and sifting for anything of value.

Viconia drifted into view then, silent as always, and she gave Ashura a brief inspection, careful not to actually touch the gore. "Nothing worthy of Shar's healing," was her dismissive conclusion a moment later.

Shar-Teel snored, lifting something from the rubble. "Thought I saw a shine! Not bad, though it's not gold or diamonds." Straightening a bit, she held up a handful of large, dull jewels. "Poorly cut and middling, but they'll sell for something."

"That one's a sphene gem," Garrick pointed out, walking over to her to get a closer look. "I heard that there's a famous mystic at the Blade and Stars who'll tell you your future for one of those."

"Ha!" Shar-Teel exclaimed, with a smack on Garrick's backside that made him flinch. "Good plan! Let's all get our fortunes read!" She stood up fully and stretched. "Or, you know, we could toss the gems down a sewer pipe. Either/or."

* * *

Uncertain where else to go, the pair had settled in at a nearby tavern. As usual.

The city certainly had no shortage of the places: little drinking houses with rough cut, poorly lit interiors, indistinguishable from each other as far as Xan was concerned. This particular establishment fit the part, though it was relatively clean and calm. The clientele seemed to mostly consist of off-duty soldiers, boisterous but not as bad as the cutthroats who frequented the Elfsong, and order was kept by a stern, armored warrior with the Watchful Eye of Helm stamped on his gilded breastplate.

It seemed a safe place to rest and think, at least, though to Xan's dismay they did not serve tea. Mugs of amber ale were the drink of choice here, although the pair that Imoen had fetched for them rested upon the table, foamy and untouched. How these humans gulped down that stuff at all hours of the day was beyond Xan.

Although thinking on it, in Evereska the wine flowed freely at all hours for some of his kind, and Xan had not cared for such frivolity then either. _Perhaps I am simply a prude._ That was what his sister had always called him.

Even Imoen was not feeling particularly frivolous at the moment. Instead she frowned down at her glass, a fingertip tracing patterns in the condensation. Earlier she had tried to cheer him up:

'I'm sure'a lead'll pop up when you least expect it! This is just like those times in the Kason the Inquisitor stories, when they can't figure out how the murder was done, but then Kason's manservant Laris says something and it all snaps together. And then Kason says: 'Laris! You're a genius!' even though Laris actually just said something stupid, and then he goes on to solve the crime!'

But Xan had been unresponsive, and eventually she given up.

A hint of movement nearby gave Xan a start, ingrained paranoia making him reach for the hilt of his moonblade. A longer look, however, and he concluded that the man approaching their table was far from hostile. He had raised his hands, and there was an easy smile on his stubbly, boyish face, though something about his dress, build, and bearing had Xan guessing that the man was a member of the Flaming Fist. City guards were always easy to spot, uniform or not.

With a hint of a smile and a nod towards Xan, the young guard reached the table. "You're a Greycloak right?" he asked over the low murmur of the crowd, offering an open hand and giving a slight nod towards Imoen. "M'lady."

"I am, yes," Xan agreed cautiously, raising a tentative hand. He tried to suppress a cringe when the man took it and seemed to squeeze with all his might instead of just polity shaking. _Humans._ It was better than a dwarven greeting at least. Xan had barely survived one of those, once.

"I'm Kent. Corporal in the Flaming Fist. You were talking with Fergus earlier?" He swung a leg over a stool and plopped down.

Xan simply cocked his head and gave the guard a questioning look.

"One of the on-duty guards in the big fort. He said you had some interesting things to say 'bout the Iron Crisis."

Xan sat back a bit, fighting the urge to squirm in his seat, but the man leaned in to follow his movements. The look on Kent's face seemed sympathetic though, not confrontational. This did not _seem_ to be a probing or interrogation.

"Up until a little while ago," Kent murmured in a much lower voice, "there was a _lot_ of talk 'bout the Iron Throne at headquarters, and the big man was investigating them himself. Then all-of-a-sudden Scar changes his tune, and the company line is that it was the Amnish destroying the iron supply all along. All investigations dropped. And if that's not fishy enough, that nobody warmage Angelo gets promoted to Captain out of the blue at the same time, and the past few days we've barely seen or heard from the big man." Kent shook his head. "Not like Scar to not mix with his troops."

"That does sound suspicious," Xan agreed cautiously.

"And all this seemed to start when the big man came back from an investigation, far as me and the others can piece together."

"Into what?"

"The Seven Suns merchant house. You ever heard of 'em?"

Xan shook his head, although he actually knew quite a bit about them, along with the other merchant costers of the region. But it was always better to let the other party do all the talking, when you are gathering information.

"They run caravans all through the Western Heartlands, with a big base here and in seven other cities. Thus the name. Got a bit of a reputation for being a bunch of cheap corner-cutters, not near as reliable as the good old Merchant's League (Lady Luck bless 'em) but they say that being cheap made the Suns bleedin' rich. Or at least they used to say that. 'The shrewdest bunch of beancounters in the Gate,' they'd say, undercuttin' everybody."

Kent shook his head derisively. "They don't say that no more though. All of a sudden old Jhasso started making these real batty decisions. Sends a whole bloody three-ship _trade fleet_ out to sea in autumn, and on a route all the sailors say is cursed by the Bitch Queen. Then there's talk of 'em throwing these lavish parties every night on guild expense. And some sort of investment in linseed oil that went south."

"Linseed oil?"

Kent shrugged. "Don't ask me how the markets work. But the big man found it all real suspicious, _especially_ when the rumor started flying around that the Iron Throne was lookin' to buy the Suns out. The Throne's rivals suddenly turn stupid and go tits-up -Oh! If you'll pardon me m'lady..." He cleared his throat. "And then the Throne swoops in to collect. You can see-"

"Very suspicious, yes."

"The big man certainly thought so. So one night he's off to the Seven Suns, to see one of them parties for himself and talk to some people. Then he comes back early the next morning, insists that he didn't find a thing, drops the whole investigation and holes up in his office." Kent shook his head.

"Blackmail, perhaps?" Xan guessed.

The soldier looked taken aback. "Scar? No way! The man's unflappable."

Xan had his doubts. 'Scar' was hardly the Commander's real name, and a little digging had made it clear that the 'big man' kept his past secret. Quite a bit of room for blackmail or other possibilities there.

"No," Kent insisted again, "I'm sure they put the big man under some sort of spell. Charmed or geased or whatever you call it."

"That is certainly possible," Xan agreed. "I am actually an expert on such spells. Perhaps if I can interview the Commander-"

Kent cut him off with a curt shake of his head. "No. There's orders not to let you into the barracks again. But all this started with Scar investigating the Seven Suns. Investigating. That's what you Greycloaks do, right? We're under orders not to, but…well, I'm sure you see where I'm going with this."

Xan took a breath and nodded. "Indeed," he said, then started slightly when he felt Imoen jostle his shoulder. She _had_ been uncharacteristically quiet.

"Well then!" the girl chirped. "That's settled! What are we waiting for, Mr. Investigator?"

Xan looked over at her and opened his mouth, trying to think up some sort of objection. But nothing came out. It seemed a lead had just 'popped up,' as she would put it.

* * *

Once they had been paid by the warehouse owner and pawned all of the jewels (that he _hopefully_ wouldn't notice were missing) they had ended up in a tavern. As usual.

Pawned all of the jewels except for the sphene gem, that is. Garrick had insisted.

Stepping out of the dimming light and into the smoke and the noise of the Blade and Stars, Ashura couldn't help but think of the term 'returning to the scene of the crime.' Of course last time she had never actually entered the inn through this door, and she had been wearing a mask. In any case the pair of guards stationed at the entrance had only given her, Garrick, and Shar-Teel cursory glances, making sure that their swords were properly tied with peaceknots before looking away and letting them pass.

Viconia followed, and the guards swung in to inspect her more thoroughly, but to Ashura's surprise one of them actually craned his neck down, looked Viconia in the eye and asked: "You're that drow right? With the bandit-killers?" When she gave the slightest of nods, he stepped aside and waved her through. Apparently, despite efforts to keep a low profile, their little band was gaining a bit of a reputation around town.

The front room of the Blade and Stars was cramped and crowded, boasting only a few round tables and a packed bar at the far end. The atmosphere was subdued and the crowd mostly older folks who gossiped quietly or focused on their drinks and pipes, and the room was near completely full, save one table ringed with empty stools and occupied by a single man. He had the angular look of an elf-blooded human, but his face was riddled with deep, sun-scorched crags, and the thinning hair that hung to his shoulders was wild and tangled; amber streaked with grey.

_ An ancient half-elf.  _ That's something you don't often see.

Garrick started towards the old man's table with his usual gusto, smiling over his shoulder at Ashura. Behind them both walked Shar-Teel, shaking her head a bit. "Could still buy a lot of ale with that gem."

"Yeah," Ashura muttered. She wasn't particularly keen on this G'axir the Seer business either. Garrick had insisted that the half-elf was famous for his accurate predictions, but somehow that just made her more wary. "Of course it only takes a couple to get you drunk," she pointed out to Shar-Teel dryly. "Pretty sure we have that covered."

Shar-Teel huffed, Garrick snickered, and then he yelped when he took a light punch from a mailed fist to his shoulder. "Shut up, lightweight!"

"Yowch," Garrick complained. He glanced over at Ashura. "You going to defend me here?"

"Yeah. I'll get right on taking my glove off and smacking her with it." Ashura, of course, did nothing of the sort, and then they were standing before the Seer's table.

The weathered half-elf was bent over a tall pitcher of beer, one-quarter drained with just a few wisps of foam lingering on the surface, which he seemed to be staring down at with rapture in his eyes. His hands were curled at the sides of the glass, and he did not look up as Garrick plopped down across from him, fishing the sphene gem out of a pocket and placing it on the table.

Still not glancing up from the _fascinating_ patterns in his drink, the Seer nodded slightly. "You bring the gem from the basilisk's layer. Impressive."

Garrick seemed to inflate a bit at that, looking over at Shar-Teel, who was still standing. "See! I told you he was for real."

"Yeah," Shar-Teel groaned with a roll of her eyes, "I fucking get it. Divination magic is real! What a revelation! It's still not half as useful as some evocation to blast your enemies, or some transmutation to fix a limp dick."

G'axir paid her no mind, reaching over to touch the grass-green jewel without yet looking at it, his thumb tracing the rough edges of the stone.

"Divinations just give you some vague signs that you won't be able to read until after the fact," Shar-Teel went on. "Happened with my old band a few times, when we got a reading before a battle. Led to more second-guessing than smart choices. Or _maybe_ this guy'll be different, and he'll give you the ugly, honest truth. But who the fuck wants to hear that?!"

She stood up straight, made a goofy face and struck a mocking tone. "'Your dumb ass is going to be dead within two weeks. Thank you for your business!' You really want to hear that?" With a snort she whirled away and marched towards the bar, off to spend her coin on more important things.

" _Ahem._ Well then…" Garrick managed awkwardly.

Ashura had taken a seat beside him, eyes narrow and and focused on the Seer. Despite herself this was all making her very nervous. Probably something to do with skulls ringed by tears of blood. Maybe Garrick would at least have fun though.

The Seer's eyes finally shifted away from his glass, holding the gem up between thumb and forefinger and cocking his head as he inspected it. Each movement was slow, deliberate, and as she watched Ashura realized that she was holding her breath. _Ugh._ Of course Garrick would be drawn to this sort of thing. Showmanship.

"Yes," G'axir finally murmured absently. "You braved the basilisk for this, did you not girl? Even took a ride on the thing!" He chuckled. "For this I will tell you your fate."

Ashura stabbed a thumb in Garrick's direction. "How about you tell him his. He's more-"

The Seer half-shook and half-cocked his head, eyes still flickering over the surface of the gem. "Your fate…far eclipses his. Burns bright…burns fast. Burns out all around you."

Ashura found herself swallowing involuntarily, something cold stirring in the pit of her stomach. _Yeah._ This was a bad idea. They really should have sold the jewel for beer money.

G'axir's sharp almond eyes shot up from the gem and fixed on Ashura's, and she noticed that they were more than a little bloodshot. "You know this, child. Know that you draw chaos and destruction like a loadstone."

"So what can I-"

"Nothing," the Seer cut her off in a flat tone. "You have no choice. No…agency. Turn left or turn right. There is blood on either path. You are steeped in it. It is tied to your very nature. The curse of a god."

"Lovely," Ashura muttered.

"There are worse things," the Seer offered. "A tide of blood and fire is rolling in. You might just halt it. Beneath muck and shadows…in the city beneath the city. In the house of your father. You might just stop i-" He halted suddenly, mid-syllable, and cocked his head, as if catching something hidden in the crystal. "Or…no. It's your sister who will."

"Sister? Uh…adopted sister?" She'd always thought of Imoen that way, but technically they weren't related. Did she have others?

The Seer shook his head. "No. One of your father's other daughters. That kind of sister." He peered into the gem. "I see her clearly. Doing what you cannot. She has always done what you cannot, hasn't she?" He chuckled. Briefly the gem spun round and round between his fingers, then it plopped down to the tabletop. "And that is all I see." With that he reached for his mug, downing several long gulps of ale.

"Thanks." Shar-Teel had been right. _Bloody useless._

Easing his mug down, the Seer glanced over at Garrick. "You wish for this seer to peer upon your fate as well, young man? You carried the gem, after all."

"If you…if you could," Garrick asked, voice dry. Not so certain now.

With a nod, the Seer pinched the gem and brought it up close once again, peering sharply at the gleaming green contours. "Yes. Your…" His eyes widened in surprise. "Oh my!" A pause. "Perhaps I shouldn't have offered…"

"What is it?"

The Seer tilted his head one way, then another, examining the facets from different angles. "Sorry, but that friend of yours was right. Or almost. As she said: your dumbass is going to die."

"What!?"

"I see you return across the great bridge, after a long…after a walk among the dead…" As he spoke his head kept tilting, fingers relentlessly twisting the gem counterwise beneath his gaze. "…and on that bridge you are captured. Overwhelmed. And there your fate is sealed. A prison floor, and your lifeblood spilled upon it. An example to the others." The seer shook his head a bit and pinched his eyes shut; bleary when he opened them again. "I am sorry."

Exasperation and shock seemed to be warring on Garrick's face, his eyes wide. "Well…how can I…I mean can I..?"

The Seer's eye snapped up and met Garrick's, suddenly lucid. "Avoid this fate? You can. Absolutely." He looked over at Ashura. "Get as far away from your lover as possible. Run. Flee. She draws death and destruction to her, and one day it will consume you. Not her fault but…there it is. Her fate."

Ashura was numb as she watched the half-elf toss his mug of ale back once again and finish it in an extended series of gulps. He slammed the glass down onto the tabletop, then stood, the sphene gem gone (did he slip it up a sleeve?) "Sorry to bear tidings of an ugly fate," he said, voice a little weary now. He seemed wobbly on his feet too. Doubtful that that was the first or even fifth drink he had finished this afternoon. "But a seer sees what he sees."

And with that he straightened his frayed and sweat-stained shirt and turned, making his way through the crowd. Off to relieve himself, buy another drink, or perhaps sell the gem, Ashura guessed. Wherever he was going, he quickly disappeared.

Ashura turned her head, scowling off at nothing in particular. "Are we sure that wasn't just some rambling drunk?"

"He _was_ a rambling drunk," Garrick agreed. "But…"

They both let out a breath. Both sat in silence for a few moments. Then they turned, and found themselves both speaking at once.

"I won't-"

"You'll _have_ to!" Ashura growled right over him, glaring into his eyes. A glare that turned into a sigh. "Please," she added. "For me?" _You're going to have to leave. Knew it all along. We've had enough tense moments. Close calls. Dead friends._

Eventually Garrick nodded. For a maddening moment Ashura thought he might get up and leave right there. And maybe that would be for the best.

But no. Garrick remained perched on his stool, and eventually, in silence, Ashura stood. Perhaps this would have been a good time, after receiving a prophesy of **doom** and all, for sober reflection and planning.

But they were young, and brash, and in over their heads. So instead they both looked over towards the bar, separately and silently resolving to order the stiffest drink in the house.

"Can you bring me a glass of whisky?" Garrick asked as Ashura turned away and took a step foward, and she gave him a nod. It was what she was heading there for. Two tallglasses of dry amber whiskey. Then maybe two more.

Crossing the room, she approached the apron-clad man on the other side of the bar: a squat, nondescript fellow, busy cleaning a mug with a piece of cloth the way bartenders always seemed to be doing. Long before Ashura reached him the barkeep spotted her, and once she had shouldered her way between the patrons and placed her order he immediately turned and snatched up one of the colorful decanters on the shelf behind him. In no time at all two tallglasses were filled.

Nodding her thanks, Ashura raised her glass then and there, hesitating briefly as the sticky-sharp smell struck her nostrils. Then she took a quick, deep sip of the scalding stuff. Experience –lots of late nights drinking with Shar-Teel and Garrick mostly – had shown her that it would soon go down easy enough, after that initial burn was out of the way. Best to just get it over with fast.

If only it could all be nights like those, drinking and laughing with her friends. Nights without the shadow and the pressure of this strange _fate_ she felt but barely understood, hanging over it all.

Adventuring. Mercenary work. You risk life and limb for a bit, and then you find yourself with more money than a farmer or craftsman could earn in half a decade. Then you just sit down and _enjoy_ it. That was how it was _supposed_ to work anyway, and at this point they had the money part covered.

The next draught of whiskey was long and deep. Didn't burn all that much either. And steadied her nerves just a little. She'd probably left Garrick waiting long enough too. _Garrick. Ugh._ She'd have to find a way to gently make him go-

_ Huh?  _ Something was off. A feeling almost like when her boots warned her of someone taking aim with a bow, but not quite. Looking up from her glass, Ashura instantly locked eyes with the bartender, who was watching her with a cold, critical eye. Like he was expecting something.

_ Oh. Payment probably. _

She made to reach for her coinpouch, but stopped when she realized that the bartender was…spinning? The light around him blurred and pulsed, and her knees buckled. Something was _very_ wrong.

Instead of the purse Ashura's hand shot to her righthand sword, quick but clumsy. _Bloody Hells!_ This was a familiar sensation: the strength seeping from her limbs, head spinning like she'd had eight glasses of whiskey instead of just two sips. And the bartender's face and form were growing more and more blurred.

Blurring, and then resolving. It wasn't just an effect of the drink (and poison!) clouding her vision. The apron and pudgy physique and even the face had all been an illusion! The bastard was wearing black now, his face sharp and narrow and his hair close-cropped.

A face she recognized: the assassin from the bathhouse at the Friendly Arm!

Clumsy or not, it was easy enough to yank the one string in the peaceknot that made it all unravel –the way Shar-Teel had taught her– and the patrons all around shouted, squirmed, or stumbled back as Ashura's sword streaked free and slashed across the bar. It missed the fake bartender by a wide margin though; he had skittered back several steps, face calm and grin fixed.

It had been a slow swing to begin with. _Bloody poison!_

With an inarticulate snarl Ashura raised her free left hand, ghostfire crackling to life along her palm. Ghostfire to purge her of poison; a power she scarcely understood, but it answered her summons well enough. She slammed her hand against her chest, willing the flames to find whatever it was that was seeping through her veins and draw it out. Burn it away.

In answer mist of gold hissed out from beneath her armor, stinging as it rose from her pours and seeped out of the corners of her mouth, and as the stuff boiled away control returned. Knees that had been wobbling and threatening to pitch out from under her straightened and tensed. Ashura's sword rose and pointed.

She took a sidestance. Glared at the bastard.

On the other side of the bar the assassin's brief grin had flickered out, but he did not seem surprised either. A crossbow had found its way into his hands, light but larger than the tiny dart-launcher he had used in that first attack at the Friendly Arm, loaded with a bolt instead of just a poisoned needle. All around them glasses clinked and wood rattled, voices hissing or shouting as the patrons of the Blade and Stars got out of the way.

"The Hell's going on?"

"Who's he? And where's Aundegul?"

"Someone stop that crazy girl before she starts swingin' again!"

"You stop her!"

Ashura kept her focus on the man behind the bar. He hadn't raised his crossbow yet. And she couldn't sense that he was about to take aim either. _Bah!_ She wasn't going to wait.

With a snarl Ashura slipped her swordarm behind her and planted her open palm on the surface of the bar, launching herself forward. But her arm wobbled, elbow bending against her will, and then her knees went weak again, faltering.

In a blur the crossbow raised and took aim. At the same time Ashura felt a prickly sensation right above her brow. Her eyes widened.

_ Shit! _

Click.

A buzz, right past Ashura's ear, and she felt the fletching tickle there, her neck craning as she violently tilted to the side. Wind brushed her cheek, and then the bolt struck something far behind with a wooden _thump_.

Something whistled over Ashura's head next, streaking in from the other side. Retaliation.

A wisp of magic flared around the assassin –some arcane shield– but it wasn't enough to stop the ring of spinning steel. It cut through barrier and leather and flesh all at once, imbedding itself deep in the man's shoulder and sending him stumbling back. As he lost his balance there was another whistle over Ashura's head, and one of the decanters behind the assassin exploded, showering him in glass and clear liquor.

Ashura found herself taking a few involuntary steps back, wobbly as a sailor. Why were her knees _still_ weak? Shadows fell across her as she slumped: a cloaked figure on one side and a man in a brown leather jacket on the other, reloading his crossbow. Garrick and Viconia.

"Doesn't matter!" the assassin snarled in a pained voice, dropping his crossbow rather than risking another shot. His thumbs pressed together and his fingers fluttered. "That poison was laced with a relentless curse. Try all you like, you're not drawing the essence of it out! You'll be dead within days."

There was a scraping sound as Shar-Teel shot past them, leaping over the bar with her sword bared and hefted, aiming at the assassin's head. But at the same time the man's fingertips stiffened and aimed outward, and before Shar-Teel could take a full swing a thousand blazing stars burst out from those fingers.

A thousand stars. A thousand colors. Filling Ashura's vision, dancing and mingling till it was all a blinding-bright white that blotted out the world and took consciousness with it.


	65. A Surprise Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we learn how terrifying doppelgangers can be. Of course, Imoen can also be terrifying

_ "Now you see me, now you don't!"  _ –Imoen

* * *

The headquarters of the Seven Suns merchant Coster seemed innocuous enough; big and square, with gilded windows and a clean redbrick façade. An entire city block was taken up by the great house and the many outbuildings that abutted it: stables, workhouses, sheds and storage buildings. None, however, showed much sign of activity.

Not nearly as intimidating as a wizard's warded tower, Imoen had been quick to point out. And likely much easier to infiltrate. "Bet I could climb that big ol' apple tree right there and get to that windowsill," she mused as she chewed. "And there don't seem to be any guards or servants about. Could do it without anyone noticing, once it's dark."

Xan grimaced at the suggestion of immediate and open burglary. "Disguise spells should suffice," he suggested instead.

They were sitting at the foot of a fountain in the great square before the merchant complex, pretending to picnic and enjoy the last glimmers of sunset. (Well, Xan was pretending. Imoen seemed to be enjoying her herbed and peppered cheese on soft bread.) "We can pose as visiting merchants and ask to tour their facilities," he went on. "Then while we are there we can ask about their business practices, and at the same time search for anything out of place."

"Out of place huh?"

"Yes. Clues. The sort one might find in one of those mystery stories you are so fond of. Papers, if we are lucky. And if Kent is correct there may be some sort of enchantment clouding the minds of the merchants. I should be able to discreetly detect it."

"I'm sure ya can." Imoen peered at the building a moment longer. "Though maybe we can get some help from the others? The two of us could play merchants, and Shura and Ess-Tee could maybe play bodyguards?"

Xan chewed his lip. "That _could_ work. Hmm. But I fear that the more of us there are, the more conspicuous we may be." A moment's thought and he nodded to himself. "Shar-Teel can be _very_ conspicuous."

"True."

A deep voice cut through their musings, giving them both a start. "You! Elf! Lost hope that I'd ever see you!"

The man approaching the fountain wore a sword at his belt, but he hardly seemed hostile, with his arms flung wide in a gesture of greeting and a smile on his wrinkled face. He looked to be well into his sixth decade, though still sturdy and able. There was a sharp grey beard upon his face, and he wore crisp black wool beneath a coat of cured brown leather, his trousers tucked into gleaming, silver-buckled boots.

When Xan just looked slightly confused the old man added: "Of course perhaps you're just passing through, and you've forgotten all about our deal, eh?"

The beard did seem somewhat familiar. Xan squinted a moment before it came to him. "Ah. The distressed hunter from the Cloakwood forest." He struggled to remember the name. Nobles, in his experience, tended to be especially pleased when you remember their family name, and could grow offended if you failed to.

"Aldeth Sashenstar," the man offered, thankfully not looking hurt. "And I promised I'd repay you for saving my life." He rubbed his hands together. "Fortuitous that I would bump into you here and now. I was just on my way to a banquet my partners are putting on. So in addition to the gold I promised, I can offer you the full hospitality of the Merchant's League!"

Xan glanced over at the Seven Suns building, then down to his hands and the napkin that he had been fidgeting with. "We just recently dine-"

"Aw, but that was just a snack!" Imoen insisted. "And ya can't turn down a feast from a merchant coster's kitchens! That would be rude." She enthusiastically shot to her feet, adjusting the shortbow slung over her shoulder. Xan followed with a slight sigh, a little dubious about this sudden excursion.

"Excellent then!" Aldeth proclaimed cheerfully, extending a hand. "And you are..?"

"Imoen."

He bent forward to gave her wrist a little peck. "Pleased to meet you, madam Imoen." Righting himself, Aldeth pointed over his shoulder. "The League's headquarters is just down that street." He beckoned, and once Xan and Imoen had stepped down from the fountain he added: "Might I inquire about your other companions? The young warrior who was eager to assist me? And the other two? I should hope to repay them as well if…" His voice trailed off when he caught the look Xan gave. "Hm. Bad news I take it?"

Xan winced. "When we met we were on our way to…a battle. Deep in the Cloakwood. The woman survived, and is out and about somewhere in the city, but the other two…"

"Ah. My condolences then."

Xan silently prayed that the man wouldn't inquire too much further, recalling that the enchanted sword Aldeth had given them was likely buried deep in the flooded mines.

"I was there too," Imoen put in. "We won the battle, but yeah. Poor Kivan sacrificed himself ta win it. A real hero."

"We shall drink to him then," Aldeth suggested. "At the banquet."

As they began to walk Imoen leaned in close to Xan and whispered. "These League guys are the big rivals to the Seven Suns, right? They might have all sorts'a juicy details to tell us 'bout what's going on. Ya know, before we even set foot in that big, scary building."

"Scary is not…" Xan began, but Aldeth had turned back towards them now, an eyebrow raised.

"The Seven Suns?" he asked mildly, having obviously overhead. "You've an interest in them?"

"Yes," Xan admitted. Perhaps Imoen was right about this being a potential avenue to investigate. Truly, she made a good partner sometimes. "We are looking into the strange goings-on at the coster. You have heard of such things, I am sure?"

Aldeth's footsteps slowed. "Aye. More than just heard." He halted, shaking his head. "Watched the whole bizarre collapse myself. The damndest thing." He looked back at Xan. "What's your interest though?" He did not sound particularly hostile. Just curious.

"I have been tasked by my people with investigating the…recent slowdown in the iron trade," Xan stated, choosing to be honest. "And rectify it if possible."

Aldeth's eyes widened. "That's quite a monumental task for a lone elf."

"Quite," Xan agreed flatly, aware as always of the overwhelming size and shape of what was before him. At least he did not have to face it all alone. "But I am a Greycloak of Evereska," he added. "It is my duty. As for the Seven Suns..?"

"Well, I'm sure you've heard the tavern rumors," Aldeth mused. "All of the strange business dealings that has everyone scratching their heads. I wish I could tell you _why_ they've gone and bankrupted themselves, but no one's really talking." He pursed his lips. "Well, besides the clerks and drovers who've fled the company, but they seem as confounded as the rest of us. I'll see if I can get you some of their names."

"Interviewing them might prove helpful," Xan agreed. "Thank you."

"As for the highups: I used to have a drink with old Jhasso regularly. Him and one of the main caravan runners; this big, friendly beast of a man named Canis Krais. We were good friends, I always thought, but the last time I saw Canis on the street he seemed a different man. Gave me a blank look when I hailed him, then walked on without saying a word. And as for Jhasso himself: I haven't seen hide nor hair of him ever since returning from that hunting trip." Aldeth shook his head. "Perhaps something has them…I don't know. Cowed and terrified?"

"Or there is an enchantment at work?" Xan suggested.

Aldeth's brow furrowed and he looked off. "An enchantment? Some magic that's got them…not acting like themselves?" It seemed that notion had not occurred to him. "That could very well explain…" He stopped himself, and gave yet another shake of his head, this one a bit more swift. "No."

"Explain what?" Imoen asked.

"It's nothing. And it would be rude to speak…well, it's nothing." He began down the street once again.

"Oh come on," Imoen persisted. "It's totally something! Someone else is acting weird? Like they've been mesmerized or something?"

"Shouldn't everyone be allowed to act a little strange from time to time?" Aldeth asked with forced levity. "These are strange days, after all."

In the pocket of his robe Xan fingered a coin, turning it over and over and giving the back of Aldeth's head a careful look. A copper coin; it was good for purchasing cheap food _or_ as the reagent for a spell that would allow him to briefly listen in on people's thoughts. Perhaps this was the time to use it.

"You're in for quite a treat," the old merchant said, eager to change the subject. "I was told the feast will start at the seventh bell. In the meantime we can relax in the lounge. Perhaps share a smoke and a drink? If either of you partake in such things." He gestured ahead, towards a big square building with an inviting number of broad windows. Much of the surface was glass, in fact, glowing warmly with the light of early-evening lamps.

"Then hopefully we can enjoy some poached salmon and honey buttered tubers, if Waukeen is good and my partners remember my preferences. Come! The hospitality of the Merchant's League awaits!"

* * *

Beyond the great double doors the Merchant League's headquarters opened onto a spectacular chamber of marble and tile. It sprawled from one end of the building to the other; wide and high and vaulted, with little alcoves sectioned off by pillars and hip-high walls that served to break up the vastness. Each alcove was carpeted and lined with curtains, and there were polished tables and cushioned chairs that served as places for the clerks and merchants to meet and work.

Though daytime business had obvious wrapped up, a few clerks lingered: lone figures hunched over desks with their books, papers, quills, and inkpots spread out before them. As Imoen and Xan followed their host into the chamber they passed a pair of stone-faced figures in colorful gambesons, halberds resting on their shoulders, and though the guards kept still the heads of the clerks all turned. One particularly doughfaced scrivener stared at Imoen long and hard, even after the others had politely buried their noses back in their books.

Aldeth's hand swept before him dramatically. "This –of course– is our great hall. A place of many meetings. There are private offices on the floor above, along with the lounge and the library. The banquet hall is on the third story, though I'll show you to the lounge first. Nothing like some seawine on chipped ice after a long day."

Xan gave him a frown. "That won't be necessary."

All the while the fat clerk continued to stare at them, wide-eyed, despite Imoen giving him her best _'What-the-heck's-yer-problem?'_ glare right back.

"Ah, but I insist," Aldeth replied, a twinkle in his eye. "At least enjoy the fire and the stuffed chairs. I, myself, could really use a stiff drink." With that he gently herded his guests towards a broad staircase carved from great slabs of marble, and as Imoen followed she looked over her shoulder and made a face at the creepy clerk: puffing her cheeks out and pressing a finger to the tip of her nose to make it all porcine. Even _that_ barely got a reaction.

The hall at the top of the stairs was decorated much like the main floor: spacious and vaulted and gleaming, with a few round tables on plush red rugs scattered about the chamber like islands in the sea of marble. A gray-haired man in polished scalemail met them near the top flight, giving Imoen and Xan a skeptical glance as he inclined his head towards Aldeth. "Ah, Master Sashenstar," he grunted. "And these are..?"

"Guests, of course," Aldeth said with a smile and a sweep of his hands. "And good to see you too Brandilar" he added with a hint of sarcasm. "This is master Xan, a Greycloak of Evereska. And his…uh..?"

"Apprentice Greycloak, Imoen" Imoen offered with a smile. "Investigator in training."

The armored man cocked his head. "Your ears look a bit round to me."

"A bit, but that won't stop me from Greycloaking. Nosir! Human or not, I can still seek out the enemies of The People and uncover their fiendish plots just fine, for Queen and Vale!" She turned to Xan. "(Evereska has a queen, right?)"

Xan cringed and shook his head. "(A council of elders, actually.)"

"(Oh. Yeah. Well that doesn't make for a good slogan at all.)"

Aldeth coughed. "Well, they are my honored guests in any case."

The guardsman shrugged slightly. "So long as you vouch for them, I suppose." His eyes lingered on Xan's ornate sword, despite his words.

"Is something amiss?" Aldeth asked.

Brandilar crinkled his lips. "Eh. Let's just say there's something prickly in the air tonight. One of those times I can feel the Watchful Eye looking over my shoulder. Then some armed strangers come traipsing into our hall…"

"Well, they're certainly no assassins," Aldeth assured him. "This elf helped save my life." He chuckled. "Was a little reluctant at the time, but a debt's a debt."

The guardsman held up an open hand. "Fair enough." He looked from side to side before stepping closer. "It's just that…" the rest was whispered into the old merchant's ear, and Aldeth seemed to stiffen slightly. A few more whispered words passed between the two, though all Imoen could catch were '…back…' and '…them…' Then the two men clasped hands and Aldeth straightened up, leading his guests away from the guard and further in.

The lounge was much cozier than the vast chamber of echoing marble, with walls of smoke-stained hardwood adorned with all manner of paintings that ranged from portraits of well-poised nobles to dramatic battles and pastoral backdrops. The ceiling hung lower here, crisscrossed with sturdy rafters, and the chairs certainly looked well-stuffed and comfy. Besides the man in plain servant's garb who stood behind the bar the place was pretty empty, a pair of women sitting at a corner table and playing some sort of game on a checkered board while a thin, weasel-faced man sat by the opposite wall, reading a book.

Aldeth made haste for the bar, and as they followed Imoen noticed that the scrawny man was watching them intently. "Evening Laresso," the old merchant greeted the barkeep.

"Master Sashenstar," the servant replied, his lips tight and his hands fidgeting with the white rag that he held between them. "You've returned from…Nashkel was it?"

"Aye, yestereve. Quaint little place, but the business is done. And the roads were quiet and peaceful enough enough. Still, my time away had me pining for a glass of your seawine." As he spoke Aldeth removed a pipe from his breast pocket, along with a tobacco pouch. "And I'm sure these two are parched. Why don't you tell them what we have available?"

The bartender shifted uncomfortably. "I am afraid we do not have any seawine in stock."

"Oh? Brandy then?"

Laresso shook his head.

As they talked Imoen glanced about the room once more, eyes alighting on a painting of some knights on horseback. They seemed to be charging through the mud towards a hoard of the walking dead. Very dramatic!

Then she noticed that Weasel Face was _still_ staring at them, his eyes big and glassy and kinda blank.

Aldeth stopped stuffing his pipe. "Well, how about some Saerloonian topaz?"

"We're out of that as well."

Aldeth looked taken aback. "How? That's all that Irlentree ever drinks. He'd never let the stocks get low!"

"Got burnt out on it I guess?" Laresso offered, but he quickly shook his head, then he leaned over the bar as his voice went low. "Being honest, sir, Irlentree's been acting real strange of late. Zorl too. Our stocks have been low for weeks, and I've been filing requisition requests, but the bosses keep ignoring me. Even when I tried to talk to 'em direct."

Aldeth frowned down at his unlit pipe. "Ignoring?"

"Aye. Never see them in the lounge anymore, and most times they just walk past me in the halls."

"And if the stocks are low-"

"All tapped out's more like."

"All tapped out then. Then…how are they even going to put on the banquet tonight?"

"Banquet sir?"

"My partners invited me to a banquet. Zorl asked me in person, just this morning. He was acting a bit strange though…"

The barkeep's frown deepened. "First I've heard of it."

_ Something is very wrong here _ , Xan's voice echoed in Imoen's mind. It seemed he had just activated one of his mental-linky spells.

_ Yup _ , Imoen thought right back at him. _Merchants acting all strange and 'not themselves.' Just like the Seven Suns. Maybe it's connected._

_ That would be a strong possibility. _

_ Well aren't 'cha glad we came here then? _

_ You use the word 'glad' under the most dubious of circumstances. _

"Well if you're not catering the banquet," Aldeth was saying to the barkeep, "then what-"

"Oh, it's all taken care of," a new voice cut in. "I assure you."

A pair of finely dressed men had entered the lounge, side by side and approaching the bar at a leisurely gait. One was shorter and slightly younger, sporting bushy muttonchops and wearing elegant black silks. The other looked to be a harder, older fellow, bald beyond a little white crown, and dressed in the same sort of crisp leathers that Aldeth seemed to favor. It was the older man who had spoken first, and now he continued. "Forgive us Laresso, but we all know you're a bit of a gossip."

The second man spoke up then, his voice almost sing-song. "So we made all the arrangements for the feast ourselves. Wouldn't want to spoil the surprise, now would we?"

"A surprise hardly seems necessary," Aldeth objected. "Not like I haven't traveled on business countless times in the past. And it's hardly the anniversary of anything important."

"Aww," the man with the muttonchops exclaimed. "But there are so many things to celebrate. Our long and fruitful partnership? Or the collapse of the Seven Suns?"

"Yes," the older man agreed. "Indulge us. And it seems that you've brought guests? We definitely have to put on a good show…"

"…at least for them."

Aldeth had turned fully, placing his back against the bar and giving his partners a very dubious look.

"Speaking of which," the man with the muttonchops put in. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced."

Aldeth gave him a wary nod. "This _charming_ gentleman is Zorl Myar." he stated, and the man with the muttonchops gave an exaggerated bow. "And his companion is Irlentree Drakon." He gestured at his guests. "Xan of Evereska, and Imoen…"

"Of Candlekeep," Imoen added. "Pleased ta meet ya." _Not._

Irlentree, the older man, bowed. "And I am most pleased to make your acquaintance. How did you two come to know Aldeth, if I might ask?"

"We're old childhood friends," Imoen answered instantly.

Both men gave her –a girl about a third Aldeth's age– completely empty looks for a moment, and Aldeth chuckled awkwardly. "This elf helped save my life," he explained, still to completely blank faces. "You remember. That incident in the Cloakwood?"

Both men cocked their heads in unison. Then their eyes seemed to brighten. "Ah yes," Zorl said. "The Malarite druids were hunting you, right?"

"Because Elban had accidentally killed one of them," Irlentree finished.

"When the druid had taken the form of a wolf," Zorl added.

"Most tragic," Irlentree turned to Xan. "You must be quite the brave warrior, to defend a stranger like that."

Imoen couldn't help but snicker, and Xan glanced at his shoes. _Weren't you and Shar-Teel ready to give him over to the druids?_ Imoen prodded through the mental link. _That's what Ess-Tee told me. Said that Ajantis 'Just had to step in and paladin-it-up.'_

_ Yes. Polite of Aldeth not to bring that up. _

"Well," Zorl added, "any friend of Aldeth is more than welcome to join in the festivities upstairs. The seventh bell nears…"

"…and they should be preparing the first course as we speak," Irlentree finished. He turned and beckoned. "Do come join us. There's plenty of space at the head of the table."

_ It's nowhere near the seventh bell, is it?  _ Imoen asked over the link. She glanced over at Weasel Face, who was _still_ giving her the full-creepo-eye.

_ No it is not. _

Aldeth watched his partners with narrow eyes, then took a cautious step. "Very well," he agreed, though his hand was close to the hilt of his sword. He began, quite slowly, to walk forward.

With a shrug Imoen slipped off her stool and followed, along with Xan, and as they neared the doorway of the lounge she turned and made a rude, two-fingered gesture at Weasel Face. His expression didn't change.

_ This is, of course, a trap,  _ Xan whispered into her mind, his tone as droll as ever.

_ Creepy-Guy-One and Creepy-Guy-Two certainly give that impression _ , Imoen agreed. _Well, at least I've got ma bow this time. And if you notice_ any _sign of trouble you use that shielding spell of yours. Ya hear me? Don't want my elf getting bruised!_

_ Alright. _

_ So, have you found the enchantment on them yet? _

_ I was about to attempt a mind-probing spell. Unfortunately it requires that I intone a few words. Perhaps you can- _

_ Create a distraction? Ooo! Can I ever! _

A sigh passed through their mental link. _Please do not go overboard._

_ Oh pish! _

It was a shame they weren't walking past any upright suits of armor. _That_ would have been the perfect thing to make a racket with. But you have to work with what you're given, so instead Imoen casually grazed a knee against one of the ceramic pots that lined the hall, sending it wobbling.

"Oh whoops!" she shouted, reaching out to steady the planter and by _total_ accident giving it a shove instead of a tug. There was a frantic rustle from the fern within, then came an echoing _crack_ as the pot struck the tiles, followed by brittle _tinking_ and the rush of dirt spilling across the floor.

"Ack! Ack! Ack!" Imoen exclaimed. "So, so, soooo sorry! Mamma always said that the gods gave me three left feet, and backwards knees to boot. But I'll clean it up! I can-"

"Don't worry about it," Zorl interrupted, no care at all in his voice. "We've servants for that." He glanced past Imoen, and when she looked over her shoulder there did indeed seem to be a sour-faced man approaching, broom and dustpan somehow already in his hands. His clothes were loose and nondescript, but when he looked over at Imoen the stare he gave seemed oddly familiar: wide-eyed and unblinking.

Something about that gaze had her _really_ wanting to find a way to vanish. Right. Now. _Hmm._

The others were walking on now, and with a frown Imoen turned to follow. Hopefully she had given plenty of cover for Xan to perform his-

_ Seldarine have mercy!  _ The voice practically screeched through her head, Xan's terror loud and clear over the link between them. She had to fight not to jump.

* * *

_ Fixed-cells continue to mind-touch. Mimic us. _

_ Poor mimics though. Crude. They wind and wend and never  _ leap!

_ And what's this? One of the fixed-cells hears us now! _

_ Which? Primate or fay…ah yes! It's fay. Hello! Hello fay! _

The moment Xan had finished his mind-reading spell he had been struck by a wave of these rapid-fire, alien thoughts, bouncing off each other as casually as one might breathe. In theory the spell made language irrelevant, but the speed and the strange tone –like some sort of ugly music–of their voices made it hard to follow, and the waves of emotion that accompanied them were overwhelming and hard to define all at once. Bubbling, insatiable curiosity perhaps? Or was it raw, stomach-clenching hunger? Or both?

And these gleeful, hungry _things_ could sense his mind. And sense that _he_ could sense them. And instead of anger or fear or surprise the two entities (where they possessing Zorl and Irlentree?) just seemed giddy.

_ I heard them think 'trap' _ a third voice casually offered. They all sounded identical to Xan, but this one seemed to have floated in from behind him. A glance back and he met the empty eyes of a servant, his hands mechanically sweeping up the dirt that Imoen had just spilled, but his eyes focused on them.

_ Yes _ another voice agreed, something dismissive in its tone. It seemed to be coming from the man named Zorl. _The fey knows we are leading it into a 'trap.'_

_ It keeps walking forward though. _

_ Corellon!  _ That had been a _fourth_ voice, somewhere up ahead and above them. How many of these things were there?

A fifth mind chimed in, above and somewhat distant. _It knows that we know. Sees that we see._

_ And if it makes a sudden move…  _ That came from the man called Irlentree.

_ …so shall we,  _ Zorl finished, looking ahead as they neared the stairs.

_ What in the world  _ is _it?_ a familiar –and very human– voice cut in. Imoen didn't look over at Xan, but her posture was rigid; ready to leap into action. _What has you all freaked out?_

_ They…they are telepathic,  _ Xan stammered back. _And there are at least five of them! They know exactly what we think, and they're all around us. We cannot…we're trapped! Imoen! We're trapped!_

_ Oh pish-posh. I don't see no chains yet. _

_ Imoen, you do not understand! They are listening to our very thoughts. If I start to cast a spell they will see it coming. If I draw my sword they will act. How can we possibly… _

_ Bunch'a mindreaders huh?  _ She still sounded unperturbed.

All around Xan a chorus of gleeful voices echoed.

_ Mindreaders. Yes. _

_ What a fascinating phrase.  _

_ More 'mind hearers,' but the distinction is unimportant. _

_ What matters is that we hear you, fey. _

_ Tel-Quessir. _

_ Whatever you wish to call yourself. _

_ We call you meat. _

Over it all Imoen's voice chimed in. _Good thing I've got a slippery mind._

Xan turned towards her to object, but the girl was…gone. He tightened his lips, holding in a relieved sigh as they continued up the stairs. _Good._ At least she might escape this-

"So, I'm real eager to see what sorta' surprise you fellers have cooking up," Imoen said, cheerful as ever. Turning, Xan gave her a surprised look. She was suddenly walking along on his left side instead of his right.

They crested the top of the stairs as she talked, and the _vast_ dining hall of the Merchant's League opened up before them: the ceiling nearly as high as a cathedral's, windows stretching from the bottom of the walls to the top and offering a breathtaking view of the bay. Most of the third story of the building must have been taken up by the opulent chamber; all polished green stone and marble pillars, with a little curtained space at the back that seemed to lead to the kitchens. Row upon row of tables and chairs stretched the length and breadth of the hall, almost all empty.

"Cooking up," Imoen repeated, giggling at her own little joke. Only one table in the great chamber was set: porcelain dishes and silverware lined up on the spotless white tablecloth, though there were no serving trays in sight. A pair of well-dressed figures were seated there, with two serving women hovering over them.

"See, it's funny," Imoen went on "'cause this is one of those dinners were we –the humans– are (in a shocking and totally unpredictable twist:)," she twirled her fingers and went " _dun-dun-dun_ ," before her dramatic finish: "going to be the main course!"

Aldeth frowned over at her, gripping the hilt of his sword as they approached the dining table. When his business partners made no response he glared at them. "Zorl! What exactly is going on?"

At the same time Imoen's voice echoed in Xan's mind. _Now would be a_ really _good time to throw up yer shielding spell!_ Strange. She seemed...distant.

With a serene look on his face the man with the muttonchops turned around, arms spread in a placating gesture. "Oh, worry not my old friend. It is-" and then his voice shifted to an inhuman pitch, his face and arms a blur. "- _exactly as she says._ "

And then _all_ was a blur; a sudden explosion of motion. The servant women advanced with blinding speed, their faces gone and their arms now stretching and skeletal-thin, hefting butcher's knives. At the same time Xan felt his arms wrenched back, the thing that had been Irlentree suddenly behind him. At the same time the thing that had been Zorl was gripping Aldeth's arms, the old man struggling to reach his sword.

Then the two servant-things were upon Imoen, knives slicing through the air, stabbing-

-right through her, to no effect. There was a waiver, and the grin on Imoen's broad face just grew and grew. "Think yer the only ones that can be tricky, huh?" Another flicker, and then the illusionary girl just puffed out of existence.

At the same time the twang of a bowstring echoed from somewhere above them all, an arrow whistling in. It struck one of the transformed servants squarely in the eye, the creature's head snapping back and a keening sound like nothing Xan had ever heard escaping the blank spot where its mouth would be: a scream and a deflation all at once.

_ The meaty primate! _

_ It's up there! It's up there! _

For half a heartbeat Xan felt the grip on his arms loosen, and with all his strength he yanked and squirmed his way free, turning with an outstretched hand and desperately snapping out an incantation. A blast of color fanned from his fingertips and blurred the air, striking the faceless thing that had held him full in the eyes. It let out a scream much like the creature that had just fallen to the arrow, stumbling backwards.

All was dizzying motion now; Aldeth had kicked his way free and yanked his sword from its sheath, cleaving his way out of the press of grey creatures, and Xan made to do the same, his moonblade pulsing with blue fire and the words of his protective spell on his lips. Just in time too, as one of the faceless things slithered in and loomed before him, a steak knife clutched in both hands.

A swipe of Xan's blade drew a narrow gash across the creature's forearm and knocked it back, and before it could recover a stray slash from Aldeth's broadsword sliced through its side, spraying lack ichor across the nearby tablecloth. While the creature was wobbling Xan lunged, ramming his moonblade through its chest before shoving it aside, desperately gulping in air all the while.

Xan whirled, raising his sword as his mind raced through his available spells, dismissing most of them swiftly. _Confusion_ or other mind-effect magic would likely be useless on these telepathic, alien _things_. He would have to rely on his blade. And if he survived this night he vowed to focus more on transmutations and other magic that would make him a better swordsman. He was getting very tired of these annoying instances when enchantment proved useless.

Shar-Teel would be pleased.

Another wide swing drove one of the attackers back, and then as Xan turned and placed his backside against the table he found himself standing face-to-face with a grinning Imoen, one of her hands raised and open. "Ya wouldn't hurt me would'cha?"

He froze.

She lunged.

And as she rushed in there something burst from the front of her neck, an explosion of silver and black. She paused, mid-lurch, though the look on her face seemed to be more one of mild annoyance than pain. Then that face swam and twisted, round cheeks and blue eyes flattening into a grey surface with black pools, her claw-like fingers reaching out to probe the arrowhead that was protruding from beneath her chin.

Xan shook himself, and as he did he glanced down, eyes widened in horror when he spotted the creature's other hand. It was gripping the hilt of a knife, pressed close against Xan's stomach. For a moment he thought he had been stabbed, but no: the blade must have snapped off when it struck his shielding spell.

Looking up from the knife, Xan suddenly had no problem raising his moonblade and slicing down as hard as he could, blue fire and steel easily cleaving through what seemed like a very soft (almost malleable?) skull. The whole creature just seemed to fold and crumble under the blow, ichor spraying everywhere.

Straitening and desperately struggling to breathe, Xan surveyed the scene. There were two more doppelgangers (That's what these creatures had to be!) on the other side of the table, grappling and clawing at Aldeth. One of the things was hugging the old man's sword arm and trying to reach his face with its sharp fingertips, while the other was holding on from behind, arms crossed tight. Aldeth's leathers were ragged and his face bloody and bruised, all three of them close to toppling and bringing the table down with them.

On the other side of the dining hall a lone doppelganger stalked about the base of a pillar, its head tilted up and its hands pressed against the marble. It seemed to be searching for some way to climb up to the rafters, where Imoen floated and aimed her bow, loosing an arrow down at the creature. The shot missed, however, striking the carpet a few strides from the doppelganger's feet. No doubt Imoen had used up the spell that gave her perfect aim.

Unsure of what else to do, Xan turned to the struggle right in front of him and flung a hand forward, calling up one of his most powerful enchantments. A wave of orange chaos erupted from his fingers and surged across the table, buffeting the minds of the creatures that were holding Aldeth and forcing them to…

…turn and give Xan the briefest of glances, their black eyes glistening with what he couldn't help but read as contempt. Then they went back to trying to break the old man's ribs and wrench his limbs from their sockets. At the same time one of Imoen's arrows came streaking by, missing the head of a doppelganger and by a wide span and skipping off the surface of the table.

A mocking voice hissed through Xan's mind: _Useless._

Snarling and kicking, Aldeth struggled between his attackers, his sword arm still held out and his body nearly horizontal as they pulled him in opposite directions.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, Xan hefted his glowing blade, straightened his posture, bent his knees slightly, and…

…and…

…and…

_ Oh do  _ ** not  ** _ stop to think on it!  _ he ordered himself. _Act! Act! Act!_

Somehow he found himself scrambling over the dining table and performing his best imitation of a charge, though as he did so countless thoughts couldn't help but bubble up, his mind whirring and racing. _Next time_ he did this (if he lived…if he lived...) he would be prepared! Next time he would race forward with a _haste_ spell on his lips, strength and agility magically enhanced, and he would cover himself beforehand with a spell that would make his skin as sturdy as stone.

_ If _ he survived this.

_ If _ these mindreading, unnaturally strong and swift creatures did not casually slap him aside when he tried to swing this _ridiculous_ blade –that had been _forced_ into his hands despite him having absolutely no skill with it– at the-

Anticipating the path of the moonblade (really how could the creature _not_ , with a storm of doubts and worries careening towards it like this?) Xan's target turned slightly, let go of Aldeth, and easily caught the descending sword with its hand. It blocked the blow well enough, but it let out a cry of pain after that, blue fire surging up from the blade.

Still, despite the slicing steel and the unexpected flames, the creature managed to hold on, black blood bubbling and hissing, and Xan held on too, adjusting as the creature tried to wrench the sword from his grasp.

Behind it Aldeth took full advantage of his freed sword arm: planting a foot on the floor, slashing forward, and then with a surprising burst of strength _stabbing_ backwards over his shoulder. It was an awkward strike to be sure, but the tip of the blade bit into the shoulder of the doppelganger behind him and the creature loosened its grip.

The old man bucked, kicked, and shimmied, using every inch of space the creatures gave him. It was enough to land both boots on the floor, and then a pommel-blow cleared even more breathing room, sending the doppelganger stumbling back. Aldeth turned to face it fully, his breaths raspy and his sword thrust forward with both hands now, and Xan swung in behind him.

Briefly they stood back-to-back, but the damned thing that held Xan's blade yanked and surged at him, and he found himself stumbling around and bumping a table, desperate to hold on, avoid the hand that was reaching out to strangle him, _and_ stay upright all at once. The creature was right in his face now, blank eyes wide as dinner plates and fingers filed to sharpened points.

_ Weak, fragile thing I feel your  _ ** fear ** .

Somewhere above them a _twang_ rang out, and an arrow appeared and imbedded itself in the creature's shoulder with a flutter of fletching. The doppelganger let out a surprised gasp and turned its head, and as it did Xan managed to slide his sword out from between its slick fingers, bumping into Aldeth's back as he stumbled and tried to regroup.

A shadow passed over them, and Xan couldn't help but glance up. Imoen was stretched out fully and levitating about fifteen feet above them all, just languidly floating by as she knocked another arrow. She tucked her knees in and rolled, righting herself and beginning to drift down, feet first, towards the table.

Xan focused again on the wounded shape-shifter in front of him, but it had started to back away. It seemed to be pondering full retreat, but a sudden commotion behind it was giving it pause: the sound of armor clanking and boots scuffing. Then in a burst of steel and color three soldiers topped the stairs at the far side of the hall, poleaxes bared and pointing towards the doppelganger that had been hunting after Imoen. The thing seemed to shout something in a human voice, but that quickly turned into one of those strangely-pitched, deflating screams.

A similar sound erupted behind Xan as Imoen and Aldeth finished off the other creature with blade and bow, but he made himself keep his eyes on the last doppelganger as it backed away. Its bald, oversized head had begun to fluctuate, lines appearing on its face and muttonchops sprouting from its cheeks. Raising a human hand that bled red instead of black, the thing made a decision, whirling around and racing towards the incoming guards.

"Thank the gods you're here Brandilar!" it shouted, voice mimicking human pain and desperation. "They're all doppelgangers! They've all- _hragh!_ "

That last part did not sound human at all. Instead it let out the now-familiar, deflating scream these things always made when they used their true voices, its features shifting and its body crumpling under the guard captain's axe. Brandilar's eyes were wild and wide as he yanked his weapon free.

"I saw you transform, mirrorfiend," he snarled, stepping over the fallen creature and marching towards the gods-awful mess at the center of the hall. "Now, are any of you _real_?! What in _all_ of the Abyss is going on here?!"

"All the…Abyss…" Aldeth grunted as he propped himself up on the edge of the table, a hand pressing to his blood-soaked side. "Sounds about…" he coughed, "about right." He had obviously been stabbed several times in the chaos.

The guard captain loomed over them all, halberd raised and steady. "Master Sashenstar?" he asked. "Is that really..?"

Imoen had slipped in beside the wounded merchant, offering him a blue bottle.

"Thank you…dear," Aldeth managed as he took the healing potion and cautiously sipped. Eventually his eyes fixed on the guards, who had not lowered their weapons. "Brandilar. You remember…the barghest? In the Wood of Sharp Teeth?"

The guard captain grunted. "Aye."

"'How much trouble can one dog be?' Heh. We were so arrogant."

Brandilar replied with a humorless chuckle. "Still are. How wrong Irlentree was though, eh?"

Aldeth took a deep sip from the potion-bottle. "Irlentree. Gods." He glanced around at the ichor-stained tablecloths and the splayed-out bodies: twig-thin things dressed in oversized clothes, their faces smooth, grey masks. "Him and Zorl. Along with...Quell and Nicha? They were all…replaced?"

"It would seem that way," Brandilar stated grimly. The other two guards were fanning out behind him, eyes everywhere. "Along with several servants. And Helm only knows how many more of those things might be hiding among us."

"This…" Aldeth still grimaced, clutching the wound at his side. "…this could mean the end of the League itself, if we don't get things under control. We need to get a letter to Dabron immediately. Call the lad back from whatever fool expedition he's on."

A shiver ran down Xan's back as all the implications snapped into place. _Replaced by doppelgangers._ Perhaps the originals were sitting in a cell somewhere, but he really doubted it. And if the situation with the Seven Suns was similar…

_ Seldarine! _ This was far worse than blackmail or enchantment spells. This was insidious, coldblooded murder. Imoen had been right. They would have to bring Ashura and Shar-Teel along if they might be facing another nest of these _things._

They would need heavy hitters. To the Hells with being cautious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It annoys me sometimes when I'm reading something and a chapter ends with a cliffhanger, then the next chapter (or multiple chapters) follows different characters. So apologies that this story did exactly that. Imoen and Xan's Detective Service just sort of took over this whole chapter and wouldn't let go, but the next chapter will belong to Ashura.
> 
> And no one tell Imoen that that isn't quite how the Dungeons and Dragons 3E ability slippery mind works. She did use levitation completely within the rules though! You can drift around a bit with a levitation spell, if you have something to push off of. It's a bit like being in zero gravity.


	66. Whererabbit Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Ashura, sick as a dog, bravely (or foolishly?) carries on

_ "If the wererabbit actually exists then he has avoided all detection thus far. Truly there has never been a wilier beast."  _ –Aldanon the Absentminded

* * *

The first sight Ashura caught as her eyelids fluttered open were blonde ringlets framing a blurry face. It had seemed easy enough to open her eyes, but moving proved far more difficult. Her head was as heavy as stone, and just trying to turn her chin and adjust her neck brought on a flurry of aches. The face swam and the ringlets shook, and then it all slipped out of view.

After a long struggle with her leaden tongue, Ashura managed to pry parched lips open and attempt to speak. "Wha-what's..?" she croaked.

The face and the blonde curls drifted back into view. "Ah," it noted. A woman's voice. "You're awake."

A second face crowded in: square, boyish and wide-eyed. A face she recognized. "You had us worried!" Garrick exclaimed.

There were steady, gentle hands tugging at Ashura's shoulders now, and with a slight struggle she sat and wriggled until she found herself propped up against the headboard of the bed. A glass was carefully maneuvered to her lips, the woman with the blonde ringlets cupping a hand under her chin as she implored her to: "Drink."

With an effort Ashura managed to gulp a little down, her throat raw and stinging. "Good," the woman added without enthusiasm, her brow knit tight.

_ Brielbara _ . Yes. That was the woman's name.

"So she's..?" Garrick asked.

"Alive at least," Brielbara responded curtly. "Far from cured though. The curse still flows through her veins. I have done what I can, but it is quite insidious."

"And you're _sure_ that even a high priest can't help?"

"Perhaps one who can work miracles, but there are none close to that in this city. The curse and the poison are deeply interwoven. To cure it we must attack them both at once. There _are_ counter-curses in my husband's book that should be effective, but we will need a large sampling of the poison. At the very least."

"Yeah," Garrick said. "Ugh. Why can't anything ever be simple, huh?"

Ashura groaned, trying to shake off the fugue that held her down. "So…" she managed to say with a cracking voice. "We track the assassin down then? Pry that poison out of his hands, and then you can…" Her words became a pained cough.

Meeting Ashura's eyes, Brielbara nodded. "That should work. As I have explained: the counter-curses in Yago's book are powerful, and I believe I know of one that will suffice." A thoughtful look. "Of course, you hardly seem capable of tracking _anything_ down in your current state. I would advise rest, while your friends do the tracking."

"Rest," a third voice scoffed, smoky and thick with an accent that Ashura recognized. "Pointless. The worst effects of the poison have been delayed, but her strength will only ebb more and more as she lays there. What reason is there for bedrest then?"

Garrick glared. "Do you have to be so-"

"Honest?" Viconia cut him off. "Absolutely."

"Well," Ashura muttered, "sitting around and waiting to die isn't too appealing to me either." Shifting to the side, she attempted to rock her way out from under the sheets, but all she really managed was to get tangled up a bit. _Ugh._ Simply moving seemed a monumental task right now.

Shar-Teel snorted, her voice carrying through a nearby doorway. "Yeah. I'd rather die with my boots on too."

A shadow drifted over the bed. "A glorious battle-death is the notion of a fool," Viconia countered. " _I_ would prefer for my demise to come centuries from now, withering in a soft bed as servants attend to my needs." The drow's movements were silent as ever, and though her ubiquitous cowl and cloth were gone her face remained a careful mask. "Of course…knowing that someone may have slain me at a distance, and is laughing at my demise… Shar would _demand_ vengeance for such a thing."

"I'm not dead yet," Ashura managed to growl.

"Hmm." Viconia did not sound convinced. "Yet you cannot-"

"Not 'you,'" Garrick pointed out. "We. We're going to track this guy down and-"

"Silence male!" Viconia hissed. "I was coming to a point." She spoke to Ashura. "The power of the Nightsinger _could_ restore you to full strength for a time. So that you may lead us in the pursuit of this man who has poisoned you."

"Alright," Ashura grumbled. When she was met with silence she added: "Then bloody _do_ it." Knowing the drow, she had a few ideas of what might come next. Deal making, or perhaps she'd be forced to grovel and beg. _Ugh._

One of the illustrated tomes from the secret sections of Candlekeep that Imoen was always getting into also came to mind as well, revolving around drow women and their domineering ways. Lots of ropes, whips, and bootlicking had been depicted. _If she starts to go_ there, _so help me, I'm going to find a way to punch her in the-_

"Granting you the Nightsinger's strength shall be…draining for me," Viconia admitted. "And quite temporary. It will last roughly the span of a day. So you had best use it well. Best prove yourself worthy of what I am about to give you."

Letting out something between a sigh and a growl, Ashura braced her elbows and tensed her arms. It proved enough to support herself; enough to sit up, wobble forward, and reach out with trembling fingers that caught the hem of Viconia's cloak and made a first in the fabric. "Just…bloody…do it!" she snarled. "Before we all wither away listening to you enjoy the sound of your own voice."

There was the slightest curl at the corners of Viconia's lips, and then she placed both of her hands (so cold that they nearly brought on a shiver) upon Ashura's shoulders, closing her eyes. Tilting her head back, the drow then began to softly sing.

There were faint rustling sounds all around, and wisps of darkness began to congeal and slither from Viconia's fingertips: silky stuff that coiled around Ashura's shoulders were the drow gripped them, then wrapped about her arms and whispered their way up to her face. Within a short span Ashura was enveloped, the darkness closing off her vision; icy as it seeped into her pours and filled her nostrils with each breath.

Blackness. A chill like the void.

Then a sudden, undeniable shiver shook her. Shook her hard. Shook her awake. Shook her _alive!_ Invigorated. And when the veil of darkness broke and flew apart like a cloud of bats Ashura found that she was pushing past her huddled caretakers, kicking the blankets away, and standing. Surefooted.

The fugue was gone. The candlelight was brighter, and as Ashura glanced around the crowded bedroom ( _Oh yeah. Been here. Upstairs at the Splurging Sturgeon_ ) she realized that someone had dressed her in a white nightgown. Likely Brielbara's.

A sweep of the room and she spotted her armor and boots laid out on the floor by a bureau, dark clothes piled up on a nearby chair. _Good._ As she stepped towards her gear Ashura tugged the gown up over her head and swiftly shed it. "You said this will last the span of a day?" she turned to ask over her bare shoulder. "What bell is it anyway?" The curtains were shut up tight, but it seemed to be dark out.

"Night's end," Brielbara replied. "You were out for quite some time."

"You may…" Viconia began in a pained voice, then paused, clearing her throat and trying to catch her breath. "You may have more time, but I would advise finding this assassin before sunset. And use that time for all it is worth. At the very least I expect you to avenge your own death."

"So encouraging," Garrick grumbled.

Ashura ignored them, snatching up her black woolen hose and stepping into the leggings. "And that assassin could be anywhere," she grumbled, picking up her cushioned doublet and pulling it over her head and shoulders. "Any suggestions? Maybe we could ask around the thieves' guild?" Of course if there were answers to be found there then Imoen would be the one to find them. Where was she anyway? As her mind raced Ashura continued to pick up her armor and strap it into place a piece at a time: chainmail leggings next, then the chain coat. Next came her swordbelt.

"The poison had to be distilled by a master herbalist," Brielbara suggested.

"Oh?" Ashura had sat down on the chair with a clink, and was fastening her boots on.

"To pair it with such a curse, it would need to be something of the finest quality. And judging by your symptoms I would guess it was black lotus extract. Expensive and difficult to refine."

"Well, that's something like a lead then," Ashura mused, strapping on the steel guards that protected her shins. "We hit the local apothecaries."

"There aren't many master herbalists in the city," Brielbara added. "Old Rasilda out by the docks. Lothander of Amn. Hm. And one of Shandalar's daughters. Delorna. She'll be a bit hard to get to though. Their skyship is moored outside of Ulgoth's Beard at the moment."

Coran chuckled from his corner of the room. "I'm not sure how one goes about calling on a skyship. Might make for an interesting climb."

Next came the steel plates that fastened to Ashura's thighs, then her upper arm-guards, and finally her enchanted gloves with their forearm-protecting plates.

"A tenuous lead," Viconia scoffed. "He could have just as easily obtained the poison from elsewhere."

Picking up her helmet, Ashura went to the window and peeled back the thick curtain. There was grey light growing at the edges of the sky, but it was still a bit before dawn. "Well, we need to do something." Would be a little while before the apothecaries opened. What could they do until then? Or maybe if they just went pounding on the doors…

"Try to be gentle with Rasilda and Lothander," Brielbara urged, as if reading her mind. "She's a sweet old woman. And he's a very earnest young man. And they both sell some high quality salves and potions."

"We'll try," Ashura said.

* * *

Jars clinked and rattled as Ashura came storming into the apothecary, heedless of the shelves she bumped or the tightly packed bottles that came close to toppling. She marched right through, aiming for the counter at the back of the room, and the man behind it looked up with wide, shocked eyes, wincing more and more with each successive clink. He was a spindly fellow, with midnight-black hair and a sunkissed complexion; likely Amnish. Brielbara had described him as 'young and earnest,' though there was something about the lines around his eyes that made it clear he wasn't a kid.

"Please ma'am, those are-" the man –Lothander the master herbalist, presumably– stammered.

Halting, Ashura raised an arm, ready to sweep it across the nearest shelf. "Valuable?" Her companions were fanning out behind her.

"Delicate…"

"Hopefully we won't have to smash anything then. So long as you're honest with me."

Lothander's jaw fell. "I…I pay my dues."

"We're not with Ravenscar. Now tell me: have you brewed any poison lately? Black lotus extract, to be specific." That made Lothander's jaw tighten, and he averted his eyes. _The right track perhaps?_ Their visit to the old witch Rasilda had been fruitless. "And I'm not talking about the slang term for opium," Ashura added. "The contact poison. From Kara-Tur."

"I…I haven't…no…"

"A lie," Viconia noted, lips curling with a cruel smile. That spell of hers came in handy, though Xan would have been even more useful here. Unfortunately the lovebirds hadn't been in their room at the Three Old Kegs when Ashura had come calling at dawn, and the staff claimed that Imoen and Xan had been gone all night. A little worrisome.

With a shove Ashura sent a half dozen bottles tumbling from the shelf. When they struck the soft wooden floor there was a lot of loud thunking and clinking, but to her annoyance none of them actually shattered. Still, the shopkeep looked horrified.

Meanwhile Shar-Teel had circled the table, her dagger pointing forward as she closed in. "So you _did_ brew the poison?" A few poking motions. "Answer us!"

"I…I can't. I can't!"

"Oh sure you can, pig," Shar-Teel snarled. "You just need the right incentive. Maybe a missing finger or two."

"He speaks the truth," Viconia stated, the smile gone from her voice.

"Huh?"

"I can't tell you. I truly _can't_ ," the herbalist repeated, his tone pleading.

"The truth once again, as Shar reveals it," Viconia said. "He is unable to tell us anything about the poison. _Physically_ unable, it would seem."

Ashura sighed. "Oh bloody Hells. It's some sort of enchantment isn't it?"

Viconia nodded, approaching the counter herself, and the shopkeep just stood there stiffly, a pained expression on his face.

Glaring at Lothander, Ashura asked pointblank: "You're geased?"

He seemed to _attempt_ to nod, muscles twitching, but his face quickly scrunched up in agony and turned red. Reaching out, Viconia caught him by the jaw, turning his head so that she was looking directly into his eyes. He trembled at her touch, but stood up straight.

"A geas most powerful and skillfully worded," Viconia concluded.

"I'm…I'm sorry," Lothander stammered. "I'm a healer. A physician. I brew cures and salves, not poison. I never would have-" His face contorted again and his words broke off. "I wish I could tell you more. Truly I do." Obviously whatever spell he was under prevented him from even talking _about_ it, let alone revealing anything about the one who had cast it.

"Can you dispel it?" Ashura asked impatiently.

Viconia shrugged her shoulders and cocked her head. "I shall make the attempt." Taking a deep breath, she pressed her open palm against the herbalist's chest and began to intone something in a low voice. For a few blinks of the eye black fire bloomed, sunlight fled the shop, and Ashura found herself suppressing a shiver. The herbalist outright convulsed, dropping to his knees, but it was all over just as quickly.

Viconia shook her head, looking disdainfully at her fingernails and the man who knelt beyond them. "The geas is far, far too strong for me to lift."

"Perhaps Xan can-" Garrick began, but his head tilted back and he shut his mouth when Viconia shot him a murderous glare.

"Enchantment or no, Xan's power does _not_ exceed mine," the priestess bristled. "A matron mother's strength is required to lift this, anyway. Or an archmage."

Ashura frowned. "The assassin hardly seemed close to an archmage. Never hurled anything at me heavier than illusions, at least."

"He may have utilized a scroll, to cast a spell beyond his normal means," Viconia suggested. There was a look of recognition in Lothander's eyes at the word 'scroll,' followed by another round of slight contortions. "The best assassinations are made in the planning and preparation," Viconia continued. "And thus the best assassins tend to be well-prepared."

"Regardless," Garrick interrupted, his voice upbeat –if a little forced. "This is a big city. There's bound to be uh…'matron mothers' at one temple or another. Or you know…the equivalent. Archbishops? High priests?"

"Perhaps," Viconia mused, unconvinced. "We'd best begin the search in haste." Bending slightly, she gripped Lothander's shoulder. "You. Male. You are coming with us."

* * *

Ashura took the lead as they entered the Wide, her entourage following with their sullen prisoner braced between them. Lothander seemed resigned to his fate, at least, his eyes downcast and shoulders slumped. From time to time he would glance up at Ashura, and his tightly shut lips would quiver, muscles at war and eyes forlorn, brimming with a thousand things he obviously wanted to say but couldn't.

_ Probably wants to at least plead his case.  _

The open-air market at the center of Baldur's Gate was a riot of colors and scents, the later carrying far on the crisp autumn winds that rolled in off the great river. Tents and banners flapped with each gust, and the little paper pinwheels many of the stalls used to draw customers spun relentlessly; blurs of clashing, spiraling color. Spices and perfumes permeated the air, though it was the smell of food that was on most prominent display. They passed a stand where a big man in an apron offered skewers of grilled eel fresh off the fire, and Ashura couldn't help but be reminded that she had not eaten since yesterday's highbite.

No time for that now though. It had already been a long morning, and they had a long afternoon ahead of them, even if this all seemed like one silly wererabbit hunt.

Coming to the Wide had been Garrick's crazy idea. Supposedly there was a prominent diviner here that could set them on the right path. One would think that Garrick had had enough of seers, but when that had been pointed out the lad had cringed, shrugged, and then said: 'Well, it's better when they're just looking into the present, isn't it?'

Most of the tents simply consisted of a propped-up roof meant to shade the vendor's stalls, but there were a few in the pavilion-style staked out here and there. The group approached one such tent, round and wide and made of colorful (if fading) cloth. A wooden placard stood by the open flap, displaying a single, stylized eye rimmed with thick black kohl.

Beyond the opening the light was dim, and the smell of myrrh and cloves hung heavy in the air, trails of incense drifting up from multiple braziers spread about the interior. In addition there was a hint of woodsmoke and spices emanating from the cookfire at the center of the tent, where a lone occupant hunched.

Ashura's eyebrows rose when she got a good look at the man: a short fellow in rich red robes, his head bald, his fingers spidery and his nails manicured to sharp points. A web of black tattoos crisscrossed the top of the man's skull, and more tattoos curled across his wrists and the backs of his hands.

A Thayan wizard –brazen as he could be– though he wore far less jewelry than Edwin had. He was a bit older too.

The red mage looked up from his cast-iron pot, eyebrows so thin that Ashura suspected they were mostly paint. His eyes were a bit bloodshot. "Greetings," the Thayan said in a neutral tone, accent far fainter than Edwin's had been. "Come for a divination?"

"Shouldn't you know that already?" Coran quipped as he slipped in behind Ashura, the others following.

"Eh," the old Thayan groaned. He had clearly heard that joke far too many times. "I am a merchant, first and foremost. Not a damned prophet. Won't raise a single eyelash towards the ether unless I've been paid first."

"Not going to at least drop some cryptic portents?" Coran went on. "Just to show us that you're the genuine article."

"Hrmph." The red wizard straightened and stretched. "You sound like you're acquainted with a certain mad, ale soaked cleric of Deneir."

"Spends his evenings at the Blade and Stars?" Garrick asked. "Yeah, you could say that…"

"Bit of an ass isn't he? Telling people their fate, whether they really want to hear it or not."

Garrick nodded vigorously.

"Well, I won't pry into any of that. Or tell you if your wife is cheating, unless you pay the fee and ask specifically." The full group had filled the tent now, elbow to elbow, and the Thayan gave them all a sweep of his eyes and a faint nod. "Haspur's my name, trained at the Academy of Farseers on the Thaymount. And since customers seem to always ask me this I'll go ahead and tell you: yes. All the things you have heard about red wizards of Thay being devious, murderous monsters is completely true. Don't turn your back on us."

Shar-Teel snorted.

"We do, however, follow the letter of our agreements. So let's do business. My price is twenty-five danters for the answer to a single question, great or small. The price is nonnegotiable. In the very unlikely event that you ask a reasonable question and I do _not_ find the answer to it you are entitled to a full refund. Let me stipulate, however, that it must be an _answerable_ question. Every so often some noble snot comes in here and makes me search for something that doesn't exist. Thinks himself so, soooo clever. In that case: no refunds!" He rubbed his hands together. "Now who needs a divination?"

Garrick pointed at Lothander. "Well, we were wondering about him. Someone placed a powerful geas on this guy and-"

For the third time that day Viconia interrupted the bard, this time with a smack to the back of his head. " _Wael!_ " she snapped. "Silence! We seek the assassin. This man is merely a potential tool in the search."

Nodding, Ashura marched towards the diviner, fingers rummaging through her coinpurse at the same time. "Tell us the location of the man who poisoned me last night," she asked as she placed four platinum and five golden coins in the Thayan's palm.

There. Simple and straightforward. Find the assassin and kill him. The geas would lift off the poor fellow once that was done, anyway.

"Easy enough," Haspur agreed with a nod, stepping away from the small cauldron (at first Ashura had suspected that there was some sort of witch's brew in there, but it actually looked to be stew) and walking over to a nearby rug. There were cushions laid out upon it, along with a tall, brass water-pipe. The red wizard sat down, crosslegged, reaching out for the pipe's stem.

Coran couldn't help but snicker. "Is that _really_ how this works? You just uh…smoke something that gives you visions?" He giggled. "Maybe all the men in my village's hunting lodge should have gone into the divining business."

Haspur rolled his eyes. "Most spells require material components. Sadly, the reagent for this one is not intoxicating." A tap of his finger and a whispered cantrip lit the bowl of the pipe. "A mixture of herbs that heighten the senses: thornberry leaf and tobacco, mostly. The smoke is the important thing though. Fluid and random, like the mists of the ethereal plane." With that he brought the pipe-stem to his lips and began to draw, eliciting a lazy gurgle from the hookah.

A long exhalation of smoke followed: grey and blue and curling upward in the draft. Before it could disperse Haspur reached out and twirled his fingers, lighting the smoke-trails in streaks of yellow and red. The haze seemed to gently swirl, portions congealing while others undulated outward. There were half-glimpsed patterns there, or so it seemed to Ashura: spiderwebs and geometric angles, billowing cloth and latticework structures, taut muscle and expressive faces.

Flashes of little scenes. Or so it appeared. She recognized nothing though; the sharp features of the assassin certainly weren't there.

Haspur peered intently at the screen of smoke, head cocked slightly and fingers gently turning as if they could adjust the scene –and perhaps they could. His eyes seemed to brighten, and the smoke grew a degree more solid. "Ah. There he-"

All at once the glow that suffused the cloud grew to a blinding white and burst, swiftly dissipating into nothing. The diviner snarled and slammed a fist into the carpet before him, a string of Mulhorandi words that Ashura assumed were curses streaming from his lips.

"Guess that wasn't supposed to happen?" Garrick asked meekly.

Haspur sighed. "No. Though I suppose I should have anticipated it. You asked me to track a poisoner after all. An assassin. Of _course_ he would have himself covered."

"You can't locate him?" Ashura asked.

The diviner shook his head. "There's a powerful protection in place. Likely from a scroll or enchanted item. There was no indication, in the brief glimpse that I had, that the man was any sort of powerful mage. Looked more like the typical arcane-dabbler." He pursed his lips a moment. "Hm. And he was playing cards. If that helps."

"Cards? That's not much of a lead."

"Definitely not a twenty-five gold lead," Shar-Teel agreed.

"Hmph," Haspur sighed. "Suppose you want your coin back then?"

Ashura glanced about. Once again Lothander was giving her a pleading look, eyes wide and lips tightly sealed. Perhaps she should have felt some resentment, looking at the man who had mixed up the poison that would likely kill her. It was far easier to pity him though. He seemed to truly just be another victim, caught up in this mess just as she was. A horrifying thing too: to be trapped in your own skin like that. At least when Xzar had done something similar to her she had been blissfully unaware.

Another victim, and an annoying reminder that it had been what? Six months? And she still had no idea who had put the bounty on her head; only hints about the Iron Throne and vague, unsettling suspicions.

_ Ugh.  _ Why couldn't things ever be simple?

Turning from her musings, Ashura faced the diviner. "Instead of our money back, how about you find the answer to a different question? Then we'll be even and out of your hair."

"That works."

"Who in this city has the power to break Lothander's geas?"

* * *

The raucous hum of singing and rhythmic tapping rang through the Blushing Mermaid tavern, muffled just slightly by the ragged floorboards of the second story. Up here on the gambling floor –where chance-wheels spun and colorful banners hung– it was hard to make out the words of the song, but the general cadence was painfully familiar to Marek's ears. The patrons seemed to be belting out some shanty about pranking drunken sailors. Easy to guess the tune, since along with _The Dryad and the Gargoyle_ and some ballad about tears and seafoam there was little else in their repertoire.

Annoying, but at least it helped him keep a fixed scowl on his face as he glanced down at his cards and made a few calculations. _Yes._ There were no more King Dragons or Dragonslayers left in play, so odds were that he was about to push a winning hand forward.

The man across the table was scowling even harder as he fidgeted with his cards. "Know what I'd like to do with a drunken sailor," he growled. He was a gaunt and rigid fellow, his weathered face all hard angles and grey stubble. There was a grey wolf's pelt slung over his shoulders (his namesake) and he was otherwise clad in hide, stitched together from countless beasts. A northern barbarian through and through, minus the stereotypical strongman's frame. His build was far more sleek.

"Well I hope you at least buy him highbite first," the woman sitting beside the barbarian teased, a fingertip tracing the edge of one her facedown cards as she reclined in her chair.

Greywolf's eyes sharpened, turning towards her.

"You know," the woman elaborated, just in case he didn't get the joke. "As a courtesy. Before the two of you get to snogging and bending over a rain barrel, the way sailors are prone to."

There was a silent moment as Greywolf glared at her, then he looked back down at his cards. "I do not bend," he spat.

The woman snorted and shook her head. "I still can't quite decide if you're the densest man I've ever met, or just the driest."

Greywolf's continual glare revealed nothing, one way or the other. Made for a good gambling-face, really. He also constantly fidgeted with his cards, winning or losing hand, and Marek had yet to distinguish which motion might actually be a tell. Fortunately Greywolf wasn't terribly good at the actual _tactics_ of the game they were playing. No head for math, it seemed.

"Crack a chair over his skull," Greywolf eventually stated, shoving his cards forward. "Till he learns to sing on key. That's what I'd do with a drunken sailor."

"That could be worked into an addition verse," the woman agreed as she slid her cards across the table and flipped them over with a flick of her wrist. "Ear-ly in the mor-ning."

_ Bloody deft hands.  _ Out of habit Marek's eyes constantly followed them: those steady fingers that he knew could blur in the space of a heartbeat. Pushing his own cards forward, he rolled them over, and Greywolf did the same, his face twisting into an even uglier grimace. The look had Marek wondering if a dagger would be coming down for his hand when he reached out and palmed the little pile of coins between them. "I believe that's the battle," he stated.

"And the war, for me," the woman concluded, brushing her messy blond hair back and bunching it up so that it would fit beneath the hood of her sable cloak.

"Oh come now…" Marek began, the usual patter about Beshaba and Tymora and streaks being cyclical on the tip of his tongue. All habit really, born from a thousand games like this. In truth he didn't mind seeing the woman depart. He'd be able to relax a degree at least. Throughout their little game of High Dragon he had constantly felt like she was probing him; testing to see if he was potential competition.

He had been watching her the same way of course. When he had first heard that this pair of notorious assassins had taken up residence in the Undercellars Marek had guessed that they were moving in on his bounty. A little egotistical in retrospect. A few drinks and hands of High Dragon with the woman, and it had been made clear that Marek, Greywolf, and the 'little pedestrian jobs' they got up to were beneath her notice.

"No," the woman said, cutting off Marek's insistence on another game. "I only allow myself to throw away so much coin. The black lotus won't pay for itself." The perpetual smirk she wore grew a bit. "At least not until my husband and I get paid for our next job." In a flutter of black and sable she stood and turned, heading for the stairs.

Marek watched her hips sway as she glided off: tight woolen leggings hidden –then not– then hidden again by her narrow cloak. Then he caught himself and averted his eyes. He had no idea if Krystin's husband was the jealous sort, but also had no desire to find out. You never knew when someone like that might be lurking, unseen.

Greywolf wrinkled his nose. "Opium smokers. Bah."

Marek chuckled. "That opium smoker could probably kill us both with little effort. Especially if her husband's somewhere in the shadows nearby."

"It's a weakness. Known and exploitable. Any sort can get you killed in this business."

The phrase 'We all have our vices,' was on Marek's lips, but he closed them, recalling that the clay cup by Greywolf's hand contained only lemon-water. A sour drink for a sour man, and on top of that he hadn't actually taken a sip in all the time he had been here. A wise precaution probably: not drinking in front of a notorious poisoner. Perhaps Greywolf's vice was constantly needing to show everyone what stern hardass he was.

"Yeah," Marek said. "You certainly never seem to let your hackles down."

"Nor do you. Admirable."

Marek chuckled, then gestured at their surroundings. "What now? Here I am, drinking and gambling in a den of vice. And I'm not 'weak' in your eyes?"

Greywolf didn't hesitate, and the expression on his face never changed. "This room has no windows, and only one point of entry. You've staked out a table with a clear view of the stairs and placed your back to the wall. You've been staying here a while, and I'm guessing you're prepared to stay longer. Waiting."

"And if a certain woman comes looking for me…"

"There's the ogre that tends to live in the beer hall down below. Yeah." Greywolf inclined his head towards the stairs. "After the same bounty as you isn't he? But what if he actually spots her? And succeeds?"

"That is a worry," Marek admitted, watching the man across from him very closely. "Rival bounty hunters. Moving in and killing something that someone else has already mortally wounded. Then stealing all the credit. Of course I was hired by the house directly. And they know about the legwork I've done so far."

"They might not care. They might just pay whoever drops the girl's head at their feet." The two assassins shared a glare. Eventually (though his expression was _still_ as sour as ever) Greywolf added: "I won't steal your precious bounty. On my honor."

"Good to hear."

"Of course if the bitch proves too much for you and you die, I'll sweep in and take the leavings."

"I figured that was why you were here."

"A wolf is never too proud to move in on weakened prey. But in the meantime I'll just watch. Should be amusing."

"Oh will it now?"

"You've always been prone to overly elaborate plans. It amuses me when men like you outsmart themselves." Greywolf's hand shot out with surprising speed, slapping the table between them. "In the meantime, how about another game?"

"If you're up for it." Marek's hands swept in, gathering the cards and piling them up.

"Up for many more. The last bounty paid pretty well, with minimal work. Some soft artist trying to run away with expensive gems."

Shuffling the cards, Marek found himself wondering if he was the one being hustled here. It would probably be best to make note of what spells, hidden wands, and scrolls would work best against someone like Greywolf, though only time would tell for sure.

* * *

Ashura couldn't help but feel a little pity for Lothander.

At the same time she found herself glancing over at the silent man (who might be holding all the answers to her current predicament in that head of his) with a growing desire to punch him right in his teary-eyed, mopey, poor-me-fucking-face! And that desire just grew and grew as the hours ground on and they seemed no closer to solving the issue at hand.

Everything had grown needlessly, _ridiculously_ convoluted as they were sent from one end of the city to the other in search of Lothander's cure, slowed down by Viconia's constant need to rest and complaints about the drain her restorative spell had put on her. A wererabbit hunt indeed!

According to the diviner the only priests currently within the city with the power to lift the geas were Grand Duke Belt and Jalantha Mistmyr. The Grand Duke naturally proved unreachable, but Jalantha, the high priestess of Umberlee, wasn't much better. They had been forced to wait for hours after paying an exorbitant price just to get an audience with her in the Water Queen's House. _Then,_ instead of money, she had insisted on a service in exchange for lifting the geas (Coran had immediately jumped to offer his assistance there, but Jalantha had demanded a very different sort of 'service.' It turned out to require Coran's _other_ specialty, oddly enough.)

So, after hours of walking, waiting, and wasted time, Ashura found herself here: cradling her temples and fighting off a headache outside the church of Tymora on the west side of the city. And fighting the urge to take it all out on Lothander's sorry face, of course.

She _really_ hoped the headache was just the result of frustration. The dryness in her throat and the churning of her gut said otherwise though. Felt a bit like a hangover. Which (she had learned through experience) is exactly what being poisoned often feels like.

Like most temples, the Lady's Hall was a grand and elegant structure, even if it was dwarfed by the nearby Hall of Wonders and a few of the west side's gaudy mansions. Bronze domes bloomed from multitiered rooftops, and all four walls of the building boasted wide entrances buttressed by marble pillars which –along with carvings depicting Lady Luck's laughing, boyish face– gave the place an open and inviting appearance.

Perhaps a little too inviting. Ashura felt a twinge of…guilt? Or maybe it was just trepidation. They were stealing from a temple, after all. Or at least one of them was.

The rest of the group waited beneath a lamppost and a cold, grey sky, nervously passing the time. Garrick toyed with his harp, Shar-Teel sharpened her dueling dagger, and Ashura just fidgeted, trying not to give the temple too many conspicuous looks. Viconia slumped against the post, head bowed and cloak tightly wrapped about her body.

At least they weren't kept waiting as long as they had been in the Bitch Queen's lobby. It had only been a quarter of an hour before a flash of green and purple atop the roof of the Lady's Hall drew their eyes, and soon the flash straightened and bent over the ledge, topped with auburn hair.

Coran only leaned there briefly, glancing down at the street and the gardens to make sure that they were relatively empty. Then, in a continuous series of fluid motions, he slipped over the edge and shimmied his way down, catching handholds in the tiles and pillars as went. In a blink he reached the ground and casually sashayed towards his companions, never slowing or making a sound, a self-satisfied grin on his face.

"Need I remind you that you owe me big for this one?" the elf declared once he was within earshot. "I fear I may never win at cards again."

"Didn't Imoen beat you most of the time?" Ashura asked.

"Most," the elf admitted as he plucked a leather-bound book from the front of his coat. "Still, I'm not looking forward to…well, testing my luck in the near future."

"I'm sure you'll get very lucky," Ashura deadpanned, reaching out and snatching the book. The stitching appeared to be formed from arcane symbols (as far as she could tell at least) and the title did indeed read _The Tome of Understanding_ in stylized Thorass script. "I'll repay you," she added, turning towards the street and beginning to march. No time to waste. She rapidly picked up speed.

"Now that sounds promising," Coran purred as he slipped up beside her. "Perhaps you can repay me with a night of dancing, once this ugly business is behind us?" He shot Garrick a grin. "Just dancing mind you. There's this lovely club in the Undercellars-"

"Was thinking more of buying you baby clothes," Ashura said, cutting him off. "I hear they grow out of them shockingly fast. Maybe a lifetime supply of swaddling cloths too?"

Coran seemed to deflate a bit. "That sounds…marvelously practical, I suppose."

"That was some clever footwork," Garrick cut in. "In and out of the temple like that!" He was panting a bit, trying to keep up with Ashura's near-jog. "Made climbing look easy as breathing."

Coran's eyes lit up. "Decades of practice, m'lad! Have you ever seen the ancient forests of Tethyr?"

Garrick shook his head.

"At its dense heart there are places without paths, littered with uneven ground and fallen trees as wide as castles. You navigate it as much by climbing as walking."

Grateful that Garrick had managed to capture the elf's attention (and doing her best to ignore the pounding at her temples) Ashura pressed on for the docks.

* * *

The Water Queen's House was a grand temple in its own peculiar right: a sprawling complex of connected, slant-roofed longhouses on a foundation of weathered greenstone that overlooked the river and straddled the bay. To reach the entrance one had to walk along the slick cobbles just above the quays and past a briny pool that served as the temple's garden, green with kelp that swayed just beneath the surface and bright with colorful schools of fish.

Beyond the low doorway and inside the temple-proper the floor was mostly taken up by more imported seawater, the inner grounds a great pool beneath narrow stone walkways. Paper lanterns topped little barnacle-encrusted poles at regular intervals, currently unlit while the skylight still channeled the afternoon sun. As there wasn't much space to maneuver, Shar-Teel and Coran opted to stay behind in the gardens while the rest of the group carefully filed in.

The priestess who stood guard at the entrance was clad in a simple sea-green robe and sandals (perhaps heavy robes or armor was a bad idea when you worked over a giant pool of water,) a lead-tipped staff in her hand and the same haughty scowl fixed on her chubby face as the last time Ashura had seen her. "For what purpose do you visit the house of the Bitch Queen?" she asked, the same words and bored tone she had used a few hours ago.

Ashura rolled her eyes. "We're here to meet with Jalantha Mistmyr. We have a delivery for her."

"And why should I allow you to waste her time?" It was nearly the same question the woman had asked them before, and it had taken a little prompting from Garrick for Ashura to realize that a customary bribe was in order then.

"Now look here…" Ashura growled, eyes narrow and a hand reflexively seeking her sword.

"Your high priestess seemed eager to get her hands on the artifact we were sent after," Viconia put in. "I believe she will be _most_ displeased to learn that you have delayed her acquisition."

The guard's lips curled a bit, but she crossed her arms and stood her ground. "Maybe. But she doesn't seem to be here to be pleased or displeased. Until I summon her."

Intimidation and extortion. It was what this faith was built on, after all; what their sea goddess practiced by lashing shores and ships to draw tribute down into the depths, one way or another.

"Fine," Ashura hissed, reaching into her coinpouch and then shoving a few pieces of gold into the priestess' awaiting hand. _But if she stalls for more I_ swear _she's going into that pool with an open throat. We're probably cursed by one goddess already. Why not another?_

Thankfully the priestess turned and shuffled off to find her mistress instead of pressing. Once again the wait was long, the lapping and gurgling of the pool beneath their feet seeming to make time with the pounding at Ashura's temples and the rolling of her stomach.

Once Jalantha Mistmyr finally appeared, however, her pace was brisk. The guard, as well as two other priestesses, followed at her heels and then parted to take separate paths along the branching walkways.

Like the other priestesses Jalantha's hair was bound by an elaborate web of seaweed, gleaming shells hanging from the end of each auburn lock. There were several strings of shell across her chest as well, interspersed with pearls, and rather than a simple robe she wore a hooded sharkskin cloak and matching leathers, shark's teeth sewn into the fringe of her cowl. Her hardened sharkskin outfit boasted several layers of protective padding, accented by stitching that evoked waves, storms, and curling coral.

As she neared the party the high priestess extended a curt, gloved hand, and beneath her cloak her other hand rested by a flail at her hip. Ashura could feel Viconia's presence close beside her, the drow's masked face near her ear. "Those priestesses…do you see?"

She did. They were fanning out along the walkways.

At the same time Jalantha spoke. "My book," she simply ordered.

Ashura stabbed a thumb towards Lothander, on her left. "Lift his geas. Then you'll get your book."

A glare. "Not so simple. The ritual is elaborate. And taxing. And we will make certain that there is no trickery first."

"There won't be any on _our_ part," Ashura stated pointedly, pulling the heavy tome out from the small pack she wore at her back. She held it up. "Here. Your book." She used it to (lightly) swat Lothander's shoulder. He cowered at first, then caught on and stepped forward.

"Now cure him," Ashura went on. "We can wait through your 'elaborate' chanting or whatever. Then this book is yours and our deal's done."

"My book," the high priestess of Umberlee repeated.

_ Ugh.  _ Ashura held it up higher. "Or I _could_ just toss it into the water," she threatened. "But once you've cured him-"

" _Toss it to ME!_ " the priestess intoned, cutting her off, and without thought or hesitation Ashura tilted her arm back and sent the book sailing over Lothander's head. Jalantha bent forward just slightly to snatch it out of the air with both hands, quickly shifting the tome under her arm and cloak.

For a moment Ashura stared, dumbfounded. Then she noticed movement to the right and left. The priestesses had closed in and raised their staves, a step away from sweeping at Garrick and Viconia. On instinct Ashura drew her swords in rapid succession: righthand, then the left, gritting her teeth and facing forward.

_ Why can't things ever be simple? _


	67. I Shall Follow Your Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we learn why our heroine probably shouldn't go on any future sea voyages

_ "Love is a lie. Only hate endures." – _ holy creed of Shar

* * *

"Well, you've got your book now." Garrick's tone was cheery, despite the circumstances. "Sure showed us. But a deal's a deal right? So as soon as we're squared up we'll just uh...be leaving and..."

His optimism was met with a grim, forced laugh from the high priestess of Umberlee: a sharp little _'Heh!'_ that was followed by a deep intake of breath. The inhalation could be felt as much as heard, the air in the temple seeming to recede away from where Ashura and the others stood. The air rolled back; a gentle breeze that tickled their faces.

All at once Jalantha threw her arms back and a mighty bellow erupted from her throat, sharkskin cloak billowing before her as a wind rolled through the temple. It buffeted Ashura and her companions, blasting back hair and rustling cloaks, escalating from a gust to a gale within a heartbeat.

Wind punched Ashura's torso and her feet slipped out from under her. Suddenly she was flying, and suddenly she was very, _very_ aware of her heavy chain armor and the deep, deep pool that awaited just beneath the walkway.

_ Luckily  _ (relatively speaking) her ass hit solid stone instead of water once she had flown backwards a pace or two; a sharp jolt to the tailbone instead of a plunge into the black abyss. Sitting, Ashura managed to stabilize herself against the continuing gale and keep from falling all the way over, both sword-pommels scraping against the floor at her sides.

Maybe Lady Luck hadn't completely abandoned her. The others? Not so lucky. Over the roar of the wind splashes could be heard.

Twisting to plant a heel behind her (and ignoring the intense ache that motion caused) Ashura launched herself up and onto her feet as the wind receded, then instantly found herself bending and frantically ducking under the sweep of a quarterstaff. A priestess (the one who had twice squeezed them for bribes) stood right over her now, staff in hand and swinging again.

Ashura shifted and blocked, but just as oak met steel something streaked in and caught the priestess in the square in the chest, knocking her back a step. Arms flopping to her sides and the staff clattering to the floor, the priestess managed to reach up and grasp at the fletching of the crossbow bolt that was now imbedded in her chest. Then her legs went limp and she tumbled over the side. _Good riddance._

Garrick was already attempting to reload his crossbow, standing with his back to the wall on a different walkway than the one he had been on a moment ago. Somehow he must have been blasted across without falling in. One of the priestesses rushed him from the right side, staff stabbing forward, and he was forced to abandon the bolt and snatch up his rapier instead. A desperate swing redirected the staff-blow, and Garrick danced aside at the same time, feet threading the ledge, poise and reflexes obviously enhanced by that agility spell that he favored.

There was no sign of Viconia or Lothander –likely they had been the source of the splashes– and the other cleric who had accompanied the high priestess held back on the far side of the temple, no weapon in hand and no sign of a spell on her lips. Jalantha ( _The bitch-queen herself_ ) remained on the central walkway, one hand raised high and a vortex of something blue and wispy gathering on her palm.

Ashura drew in a quick breath, then with her head down and temples pounding away she charged across the bridge as fast as she could. That seemed to make Jalantha quicken her chant, sea-green mist flickering around the ball of pulsing blue that she was preparing to wield.

Well, they'd see who managed to strike first! Ashura's swords swiveled back for a stab.

_ Oh! Woops! _

At the last instant she flung her arms out, a sword pointed to either side as she collided with the high priestess in a full-body tackle. _Need her alive!_

There was a pained (and satisfying) yelp when Jalantha struck the surface of the bridge, though she instantly pitched beneath Ashura and sent them both rolling. The priestess wriggled like an eel, screaming in Ashura's ear, and then her teeth started snapping.

The bites forced Ashura to turn her head away and desperately bend her neck, but with a little effort her wrists crossed against the small of the priestess' back, applying pressure with her sword pommels and turning an awkward hug into something more vice-like. From there she managed to reel back a bit, and then _slam_ Jalantha bodily against the stone floor. _That_ put a stop to the screaming and the biting, and Ashura's grip only tightened from there.

For all her bluster the high priestess wasn't all that strong.

"Stop…your…squirming!" Ashura snarled, shouldering the priestess against the floor once again. Jalantha let out an ' _Oof!_ ' and seemed to slacken, and Ashura took full advantage: yanking a hand out from under her opponent and punching as hard as she could with the hilt of her sword. "Now _listen!_ We had a deal!"

Jalantha blinked, then all at once her eyes sharpened. "I…do not deal…" she growled through bleeding lips. "I comman-"

Her words were cut off by another vicious blow from Ashura's righthand pommel, smashing into Jalantha's nose and cracking the back of her head against the floor. "What was that?" Ashura demanded. _Gods, all this just to get her to cast a spell._

It took a moment of panting and blinking for the high priestess to compose herself enough to speak, and when she did her voice was lower, words more measured. "I said…said that…" And then there was a sudden upsurge in volume and something flashed in Jalantha's eyes, bright and blue. " _Grant me the strength of the tides!_ "

The moment the prayer left the high priestess' lips Ashura hammered down with another blow, but this time the Jalantha's head just turned slightly, and a jolt of pain ran through Ashura's arm. It was like punching a stone wall.

Jalantha slithered and twisted, and the instant Ashura realized that a boot had been braced against her belly she found herself doubled over and flying back, flung off of her opponent, who now seemed to have the strength of an ogre. When her back struck the walkway one of Ashura's arms flopped through empty air, dangling over the edge, but she managed to twist away and scramble upright.

The high priestess had shot to her feet by then, the chain of her flail spinning and a faint blue glow hanging about her: some battle-spell that had boosted her strength and durability, it seemed. Branwen would have approved.

The other priestess still stood on one of the separate walkways, arms crossed at her chest and showing no sign of joining the fight. She seemed to be much younger than the rest: perhaps in her early teens. An acolyte then. Though it didn't seem like fear was holding her back. She actually looked a little amused.

Elsewhere, the scrape and clang of Garrick's rapier fending off the staff of the third priestess continued to echo.

Jalantha's flail was a whirling blur now, and she took a testing step forward, poised and surefooted despite the blows she had taken. As they faced off Ashura danced from foot to foot, trying to judge where the chain would come flashing in.

Some obvious feints, then the priestess finally flicked her wrist and Ashura slid aside and ducked. The backswing caught her though, sending a spike of pain through the back of her thigh as bits of chainmail tore away. A snarl and a retaliatory slash from Ashura answered the blow, but it rebounded off the steel bar of the flail.

The chain lashed in again, in a low arc, and Ashura twisted away. Her heels ended up at the edge of the bridge, and then she had to duck another swing as she shimmied along. A frantic moment was spent between the whistling flail and the black abyss at Ashura's back, then she hopped, pivoted, and made a desperate retreat, the high priestess lunging to follow.

A melodic, ululating cry sounded from their left, followed instantly by a blast of white-hot light. It struck Jalantha full in the side, crackling and mingling with her sea-blue aura, and then all erupted and fell away in a storm of colorful sparks. The burst seemed to send the priestess stumbling back a step, her arm lowering and faltering, her battle-grimace melting away and exhaustion taking its place.

Viconia had been the source of the dispelling blast, one hand still out and curled like a claw as she finished hauling herself up onto the walkway. Her hair was darkened and plastered to her face and neck, and her heavy, sopping cloak seemed to have bunched up and wound around one of her arms. With an indignant scowl she uncoiled the fabric and slammed it down onto the floor before her, rising full to her feet. It felt odd to see the drow no longer covered by her formless garment: willow-thin in the leather vest and cotton trousers that she wore beneath; as disheveled and furious as a cat that had just been dunked.

Without her battle-spell Jalantha faltered, but Ashura didn't, lunging in low while her left hand swung high. The blade caught and ensnared the flail-chain, and its twin stabbed in at the same time, puncturing layers of sharkskin and the stomach beneath.

The priestess doubled over; run through. At the same time Ashura's eyes widened, realization setting in. _Shit!_

With a backhanded yank Ashura easily plucked the flail from Jalantha's fingers, pulling back at the same time and slipping her other sword free in a spurt of blood. The high priestess fell back a step as well, swaying and clutching at her abdomen, a great red stain spreading across her grey armor.

_ Well, she's a cleric. She can heal herself. _

Swaying –knees buckling and eyes unfocused.

_ Come on! Heal yourself! _

Thankfully Jalantha managed to grit her teeth and stammer out a few words, blue-white light welling up where her hand pressed to her wound. As the high priestess' legs steadied Ashura tensed, getting ready to try yet _another_ tackle. ( _Why, why, WHY can't things ever be simple?_ )

But Viconia was a step ahead. " _Kneel!_ " The _command_ echoed through the chamber in a tone that brooked no dissent, timed for the instant that the healing prayer was complete.

Jalantha dropped to her knees, and before she could recover from the divine compulsion Ashura surged forward and kicked the priestess in the side, hard as she could. As Jalantha toppled Ashura followed, planting a knee and abandoning a sword so that she could grip Jalantha's wrist and twist it behind the priestess' back. With her other hand Ashura pressed the point of her sword between her prisoner's shoulder blades.

As Ashura tried to catch her breath and secure her captive a voice sounded from below, accompanied by thrashing in the water. "Help! Help!"

Lothander, it sounded like. Could he not swim? Did the pool have sharks? Of course there would be sharks…

Ashura let out a frustrated groan and stole a glance about the room. The priestess Garrick had been exchanging blows with lay sprawled out across one of the walkways now, two arrows protruding from her ribs, and nearby stood Coran, bow in hand.

Garrick was bent over and clutching his knees, his behind braced against a nearby wall and completely out of breath. Shar-Teel had stepped in beside the bard, weapons raised and eyes narrowed on the child-priestess who had _still_ taken no action.

"I'll get him!" Coran volunteered immediately, dropping his bow and springing off the ledge without hesitation.

"Thanks," Ashura muttered, turning her attention back to her prisoner. Jalantha's head and shoulders dangled over the ledge, though Ashura dismissed the notion of threatening her with a dunk. This was a water-priestess after all; maybe she could even breathe the stuff.

"Now," Ashura snarled, "as I was saying: we _just_ need you to remove the geas from the idiot that Coran's fishing out of the pool. Then we're leaving. You can even have your stupid fucking book!"

Viconia scoffed at that, and Ashura shot her a glare.

"I...I can't…" Jalantha managed to rasp out.

"You what?!"

"I can't…can't remove a greater geas. The power is beyond me." The faintest of smiles seemed to appear on the face of the child-priestess.

_ Nine bloody Hells!  _ Haspur had been…wrong? This had _all_ been a waste of time? A fool's quest? A wererabbit hunt?! A-

"A diviner informed us that you have the power to lift the fool's curse," Viconia stated evenly, hovering over them both.

"The power?" Jalantha seemed to ponder that word for a moment. "Yes. There…there is a scroll. I have a collection of powerful prayer-scrolls-"

"A secret collection!" The child-priestess shrieked, her voice high and nasal. "I knew it!"

"Yes," Jalantha admitted. "Scribed by Meshon herself, before that mob of fishermen killed her. I use the scrolls to…supplement my powers."

"You are a fraud!" the child-priestess accused. "Just like I thought. Your power and your faith never _approached_ my mother's while she lived!"

"Go drown in sand, Tenya!" Jalantha spat, glaring across the chasm between them. "Could you do any better? Could you perform the rituals for _Storm Call_?"

"I know that _you_ cannot."

"The _Tome of Understanding_ would have changed that. It would have cemented my power-"

"You rely on artifice and trickery, where our goddess demands faith! You-"

"The stash of scrolls?" Ashura demanded, tone sharp enough to cut through the bickering. "Where is it?"

"Yes," Viconia hissed in agreement, raising a hand. A red spark formed on the tip of her index finger. "Tell us, 'high priestess.' Or I shall burn out a fraction of your life one agonizing piece at a time, until you comply. You know this spell, yes? Its capacity to damage whichever piece of you I choose, ever so slightly? No doubt you can guess how many times a drow priestess can inflict such a torment."

If Jalantha hadn't deflated completely before, then she certainly did now, and her words poured out swiftly. "You'll find it in my chambers, at the very back of the hall I came from. Beyond the altar room. The scrollcase is under some clothes in the dresser."

"Simply under your garments?" Viconia sounded skeptical. "There is no safe? No traps? No contact poison?"

"No."

Shaking her head, the drow began to stalk towards the far end of the temple. "You humans are so very simple."

By then Coran and Garrick had managed to fish the herbalist –coughing and soaked the skin– out of the pool, and it wasn't long before Viconia returned with a scrollcase slung over her shoulder and a parchment between her outstretched hands.

"That it?" Ashura asked.

Viconia nodded. "A powerful prayer, meant to remove all magical afflictions. It should easily break the geas."

"And you can channel it yourself?"

The drow stuck her nose up a bit and bristled, obviously offended. "Easily. (That you doubt me so, _alur_ …)"

"Good." Quick as she could, Ashura brushed Jalantha's sharkskin hood aside, balled her fist in the priestess' hair, and violently yanked her head back. In nearly the same instant, as a yelp grew in Jalantha's throat, the edge of Ashura's righthand sword bit into the front of the priestess' neck and cut from ear to ear. The yelp became a sputtering choke, blood showering the pool below.

A stab through the back –just to make sure– and then Ashura launched to her feet and gathered her swords. "Now let's get out of here."

They had only taken a few steps, however, when Tenya's high voice called out. "Halt!" A sudden pressure in the air accompanied the command, and there was a sloshing sound from the pool below.

"You've already defiled these grounds with the blood of its tenants," the little girl's voice continued, cold and echoing off the greenstone and the churning waves. "And I did not lift a finger, because they were not worthy. But if you walk out from here with my _mother's_ scrolls...the scrolls of the _true_ high priestess…"

They had all turned towards the girl now. Her arms were outstretched, the light in the chamber seemed to have dimmed, and a gentle breeze rustled through her lanky blonde hair. It reminded Ashura of kelp waving in the currents, down in the tidal pools beneath the Candlekeep cliffs. And of the Sirine Queen.

"Well. I would not advise tempting the Bitch Queen's wrath further," Tenya concluded.

Looking over at Viconia, Ashura caught sight of a predictable scowl. They both shared a glare, and Ashura tilted her head towards the young priestess. A bit more glaring followed, and then with a low ' _Hrah!_ ' Viconia reluctantly tossed the scrollcase over to the child.

It was nice to feel the pressure in that damned waterlogged temple let up. Nicer still to step out of it entirely, leaving the mess and the dead behind. Under the grey sky and the afternoon light Viconia covered her face with her dripping cloak, wringing it a bit at the same time as she grumbled. "So many indignities you force me to suffer under your command…"

"Stow it," Ashura snapped from beside the drow, who gave a start when a heavy leather tome slapped against her chest. Turning her head to meet Viconia's eye, Ashura added: "You did good work. Here's your pay."

For once the dark elf priestess looked too shocked to make a complaint, her eyes wide as she held the _Tome of Understanding_ up between her hands.

"Now let's…" Ashura continued, but she found herself turning her head and trying to clear her throat before she could finish. She attempted to cough, but it caught in her throat and pulled at her stomach. When a choked rasp finally came the force of it bent her over, knees hitting the unforgiving stone of the courtyard, followed by her hands. Then dry heaves wracking her body. Once they had run their course and she had blinked away some tears she found that Garrick and Coran were both hovering close.

Vision blurry, Ashura looked past them and over to Viconia. "Now would you hurry up and use the damn scroll? You can read the book on your own time."

Viconia had already stowed the tome away. "Of course, _alur._ " She unfurled the prayer-scroll fully, and it only took a moment, there in the temple courtyard, for her to aim it at Lothander and intone the words, unleashing the powerful magic.

As the parchment flew away in a cloud of blue cinders Lothander took several long, labored breaths, clutching his chest. "Thank the gods!" he finally shouted. "You've no idea what a relief this…is…" When he looked up into the hard eyes of the three mercenary women who stood before him his words caught in his throat.

"Tell us everything," Ashura demanded.

Another deep breath, and then the full story came tumbling out, frantic and a bit out of order. The assassin's name was Marek, apparently notorious around the Waterdeep region (Shar-Teel confirmed this with a grunt. 'Yeah. The poisoner. I've heard of him.') He had come to the herbalist's shop several days before and demanded that Lothander brew poison for him, threatening his wife and son if he didn't agree. The deal, of course, had been sealed with a powerful geas that Marek had read from a scroll, worded in a manner that both forced Lothander to be the assassin's personal poison-maker and ensured his silence.

Most of this Ashura had more or less guessed, but with a little prodding the important details came out. Marek had insisted that Lothander brew as much black lotus extract as he could and continually deliver the stuff to him at the gambling hall of the Blushing Mermaid tavern.

Viconia chuckled. "Undone by his own greed. He should have slain you to cover his tracks." She turned north. "To this tavern then?"

"What about this nuisance?" Shar-Teel asked, stepping closer to Lothander and pointing with her dagger. "After all this bother, I say we leave him face down in that pool."

The herbalist paled. "No…please. I can start working on an antidote! At my shop. If you'll just…"

"Let him go," Ashura ordered, already setting off for the northern streets. She halted briefly to glance back over her shoulder and share a look with Shar-Teel. The older woman shrugged, putting her weapons away and falling in line.

"Thank you!" Lothander stammered as they left him behind. "Thank you so much! You can find me at my shop! I'll do what I can to brew something. I'll fix this!"

Ashura didn't look back. A cure would be nice, whichever way they could get it, but she wouldn't exactly blame the herbalist if he did the smart thing and got out of town instead, along with his wife and child. He just seemed to be a victim in all this, really. And what were they going to do next? Track down and murder the blacksmith who had fashioned the spike that had left a ragged cut across her leg?

Speaking of which…

Ashura stopped, searching through her pack for a cloth, as much annoyed by the delay as the pain and blood loss. The sun was setting.

* * *

There it was at last, plastered to the side of a building across the street: a coy, dark haired woman with a fish's tail on a blue field. The sign of the Blushing Mermaid.

Ashura stopped to steady her wobbling knees and catch her breath before she crossed the cobblestone path. The sun had sunk well behind the walls now, and workers were out lighting the streetlamps. Nearly twenty-four hours since she had been poisoned, and half a day since Viconia had bolstered her with a restorative spell. A spell that was obviously wearing off.

"You look like shit," Shar-Teel muttered. "Hate to say it, but you're likely to just flop on the assassin's blade like a stuck fish when you bump into him."

She couldn't exactly disagree. Gritting her teeth, Ashura looked down and formed a fist, calling on the ghostfire. It flared to life, and with a will she opened her palm and pressed it to her chest, pinching her eyes shut and focusing on the venom. A shiver ran down her spine as the energy pulsed through her veins, icy and sharp, and when the light faded and the sensation fled she opened her eyes. There was no cloud of dissipating poison rising before her, like the previous times she had used the power, but at least her legs and stomach seemed steady.

"That appears to have slowed the course of the poison," Viconia observed. "For now. Useful, if fleeting. I desire to learn which goddess has granted you this power."

"Me too," Ashura growled. "If it kicks in again can you..?"

The drow shook her head. "Not until I rest. We all have our limits."

Shaking her head, Ashura started for the tavern once again. A dull orange glow issued from the windows, along with a murmur that sounded like singing. "Haven't reached mine yet."

"I shall follow your strength." Implicit in that statement was the fact that once Ashura's strength had fled the drow would have no compunction about leaving her in whatever ditch she fell into.

_ Ah well.  _ What was there but strength, in a situation like this? You walk forward or you don't. You draw one more breath or you don't. And another and another.

With the same fury she had used on the apothecary's entrance that morning, Ashura shoved the tavern's door aside and stomped into the place. Smoke and laughter greeted her, along with a strong smell of piss and unwashed bodies. _Lovely._

Besides the strong odor, the Mermaid was much like every other dingy tavern they had visited up and down the coast: all unpainted, unfinished wood, with ale flagons cluttering every horizontal surface. One oddity though: every piece of furniture seemed to be completely mismatched. There were stools with three, four, even five legs, chairs of wrought iron, wood, and even a few with rockers. Mixed in with the stools were some stuffed chairs that looked to have been pilfered from some noble's home, and every table was carved in a different style, often from different types of wood; from nicked but expensive-looking cherry all the way down to roughhewn pine.

Oh, and there was a giant sitting in the middle of the taproom. That was a little odd too.

He was as broad as most men are tall, cross-legged on the floor and dressed in mismatched leather and hide with some pieces of 'armor' latched on that looked to have been made from stovepipe, along with bracelets of woven grass that sported Shaaran patterns. His head was bald, skin mottled and yellow, ears small and sharp, and as he glanced over and then rose to his feet he looked to clear nine feet, at the last.

_ Yep. That's an ogre. _ Maybe he was the source of the overpowering smell.

Turning to face the newcomers, the ogre rested his weapon against a shoulder: a warmace that looked like it was meant to be a two-handed weapon, tiny and toy-like in the creature's hand. Then, with his free hand, he pointed.

"You! Ash-ra! Of Can-del Town!" He stumbled over each syllable. Likely Chondathan wasn't his first language.

"Uh…" was about all Ashura cold manage. The tavern's patrons had been giving the ogre a wide berth to begin with, but now they were scrambling back, many hugging the walls.

"See you on…on…" The ogre struggled for the words.

"No idea," Ashura replied, shrugging and starting to edge along the room, her swords now drawn.

"On wan-ted pay-per! Big gold! Mine!" And without further preamble the ogre launched himself forward and the mace came streaking down.

At least he had talked long enough for Ashura to draw her swords and prepare to swing. It was nice when the assassins did that.


	68. Berserk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Ashura earns a new title from Viconia, and a new sword

_ "There's different types in this world, and there's different types o' rage to go along with 'em. Some o' the pups I train turn to whirlwinds of blind, two-handed fury, to be sure. But there's others that get the tunnel vision. Singular minded, ignoring everything that gets thrown at 'em till they sink their teeth into what they're after. And then, like a stubborn old wolf, they just don't let go."  _ -Old Myrlok of the Ice Wolf Berserker Lodge

* * *

Once again Marek's eyes followed Krystine's backside as she sashayed towards the stairway, before he caught himself and his gaze returned to his cards, absently shifting them between his fingers. Gambling here had always just been a way to pass the time, but with the purse of gold the woman had just handed him it seemed even more pointless now. All for a tiny vial of Lothander's curse-laced poison, too. Quite a deal really, considering that the _geased_ young man was busy brewing more of the stuff. Perhaps the poison- _application_ business was the wrong line of work to be in, now that Marek had stumbled upon a steady supply.

"You want to buy some black lotus too?" he asked the man seated across from him. Marek still carried a small vial, along with the tiny amount that was dabbed on the crossbow bolt currently loaded in his bow. Of course the question was hardly meant to be serious.

Greywolf let out a predictable scoff. "No poisons for me. And no _expenses._ I rely only on my blade and tracking skills to secure my prey."

"You never even pay informants?"

"Of course not. Bah. Tossing coins around in hopes that it will make more flower? 'Wheeling' and 'dealing?' The ways of _civilization_." That last word came out as a curse. "A man should need only his hands and his will to take a prize. Otherwise has he truly earned it at all?"

Marek rolled his eyes. Why was this old bounty hunter up here playing cards with him at all, if not as a form of 'wheeling and dealing?' Hoping that a _certain_ female prize might show up to be picked off. The hypocrite. Then again, the whole 'rugged barbarian' act-

A loud – _Wump! –_ followed by a series of cracks echoed up from the stairwell, drawing Marek's eyes and breaking his stream of thought. The other gamblers glanced over too, but most swiftly returned to their games. Not like barroom brawls were unusual here.

"Whatever could that be?" Graywolf asked rhetorically, rearranging his cards.

Marek ignored him, shutting his eyes up tight and focusing. The image of the Mermaid's downstairs swiftly resolved before him, thanks to the simple scrying spell he had left active. "It was a table breaking," he answered flatly. Crushed by Larze's warmace. After it had missed a certain very alive, black-haired, and pissed-off looking girl. _Damn. They found the place._

"Figured it wasn't loud enough to be a falling ogre. Maybe that will come next."

"Hrm." The mercenaries had spread out and effectively encircled the armored ogre; the bard, wood elf, and cowled priestess edging against separate walls and taking aim with bows and chakrams. Meanwhile the girl and her swordswoman partner were working in tandem, one dodging, slashing, and dancing around at the front while the other slipped in to take swipes at the backs of the ogre's legs, switching roles when Larze wheeled and his warmace came sweeping in.

The ogre was faster than his size would suggest, and his whirling kept both women on their heels, chairs and tables falling but no damage done so far. Maybe- _Blast!_

And now the priestess had thrown some sort of spell at the broad target before her: a green ripple that made the ogre stagger, and when he swung his mace again the movement was a bit slower. Clumsy. Probably under some sort of magical affliction or poison.

Marek cringed when the dark-haired girl managed a sliding-lunge that drove a sword deep in the back of the ogre's calf, and there was a chuckle from the other side of the table. Greywolf was closely watching his face, it seemed. And eager to taunt.

At least Larze managed to backhand the girl with the butt of his mace, the blow turning her head and sending her helmet flying away. For a moment Marek hoped that the ogre would manage to swing around and brain her with a second blow. Then it would just be a matter of insuring that _he_ collected the bounty. Could he really be so lucky?

* * *

Everything was a blur. The world spun.

She fought to steady herself. To stamp down. The light dimmed, blotted out by a great looming form; a heavy shadow, rushing forward.

_ Back! Get back! _

She was retreating; a mad scramble away from the shadow. With each step a knee buckled, threatening to cave completely. Her whole body swayed; punch-drunk.

Something whistled past her face, streaking down like a falling star, the wind blasting her hair back. It struck the floor with a detonation; a thunderous _crack_ that sent up a cloud of splinters and dust, and she flinched as a woodchip struck her cheek. Better that than a mace, at least.

The blur had resolved. Slightly. The ogre was already hefting his weapon again, closing the distance with one sure stomp. Arrows and crossbow bolts hung loose from his arms and torso, completely ignored; the wounds splinter-deep.

No way was she going to parry a swing of that weapon. So as the warmace blurred and the ogre lunged Ashura lunged too, swords held back. She went in low. When in doubt: charge.

* * *

"Larze isn't proving to be as much of a bulwark as you had hoped, eh?"

Marek didn't respond, eyes still closed, though he imagined the tight set of his jaw made it clear that things were not going ideally down below. He had hoped the ogre would have at least smashed a few of the mercenaries by now, but they kept scampering about, and Larze was starting to look like a pincushion.

Still, all it would take was one lucky swing of that mace.

And there! The girl had just been struck again, foolishly charging the ogre head-on and getting a knee to the gut for her troubles. The blow sent her crashing into a table, and the ogre kept his foot raised, kicking back at the Dosan woman before she could close and slash him in the back. The kick was awkward, but it at least kept the bitch off-balance, and then Larze was whirling and bringing his warmace down full-strength at the swordswoman.

Dosan raised her longsword to block, caught the mace just under the flanges, and –with a trembling arm and a pained expression– pushed and held it back. _Damn!_ Bending her knees, she up and _shoved_ , redirecting the blow and surging forward, her offhand dagger swinging in and trying to stab the ogre's wrist.

"He's still upright, and fighting hard," Marek stated, face tight, eyes twitching as he watched move and countermove. "Don't think you'll get a chance to steal a bounty from me tonight."

"Steal? Bah," Greywolf snarled. "Who said that's why I'm here?"

"Or maybe you're waiting for me to offer you a deal? Half the bounty if you help me secure it?"

Greywolf cocked his head. "That an offer?"

Was it? Marek had pondered taking that angle if things came to this, but perhaps he had made the suggestion a little prematurely. The ogre could still win the whole fight, after all. Larze was a tenacious bastard, and rumor had it that the reason he hit harder than most of his kin was an enchantment woven into the bracelets he wore. Seeing the mess he'd made of the Mermaid's taproom, Marek could certainly believe it.

So for now he kept his mouth and eyes shut, focused on the battle below, and ignored Greywolf.

* * *

In a frantic, scrambling burst Ashura shot to her feet, knocking bits of the broken table aside. Just in time too.

Once _again_ the ogre had whirled around, his narrow little eyes focused on her and her alone, despite the extra arrows he had picked up. And the wounds too. Behind him Shar-Teel was falling back, clutching her longsword with both hands now, a bit unsteady on her feet.

The arrows just seemed decorative really; shafts wobbling and fletching flapping as the ogre stamped his feet with nearly enough force to snap the floorboards, raising his mace up to the ceiling and shouting out something in his own tongue, accompanied by a burst of foamy spittle. " _Ner bo-kek! Ash-ra!_ "

He sounded pissed.

Probably just wanted to do his job and snatch up his bounty. Then all these little nuisances had had the _nerve_ to get in his way! To fill him with arrows! To dodge and duck and stab and scurry and fight for their lives. _The audacity!_

"Yeah, well _fuck_ you too!" Ashura growled right back, knees bent and stance low.

The ogre's mace swept in as he charged. The same sort of swipe he had made at her moments ago.

Ashura launched herself forward and dashed the four quick paces it took to meet him, just like she had before. All the same moves, just a bit more desperate and furious this time. And then the ogre even raised his leg, kicking once again. _Idiot._

This time Ashura saw that coming and slipped past the rising knee, her own knees scraping the floorboards as she slid in. Her sword led the way as she slipped between the ogre's legs, stabbing _up_.

* * *

Marek couldn't hide the pained look on his face as his head turned violently, trying to look away from the scene his scrying spell was projecting on the backs of his eyelids. Annoyingly the image stayed right there in front of him until he forced his eyes _open_ , looking away as Greywolf let out a predictable burst of laughter.

A great animal bellow had erupted from the first floor, and when Greywolf finished his taunting little guffaw he quickly stood, brushing out his firs. "I think I'll be taking my leave now," the old bounty hunter announced.

"The offer stands," Marek swiftly replied. "We split the bounty fifty-fifty."

"Ha! I think not." Turning from the table, Greywolf made his way towards the cluster of chance-wheels and the stairway. "You can have it all. That sound just made it very clear that it's time for me to step out of the way."

Scowling, Marek closed his eyes again. _Yeah. It's about over._ Larze had toppled now, and the darkhaired girl had leapt atop him and driven both her swords into his back. She held the hilts tight, making the blades twist as she rode out the ogre's increasingly feeble struggles. They'd likely be death-spasms soon.

But… _Oh! What's this? Perfect!_ While the girl was finishing the ogre some of her companions had already begun to move, and Marek could see which one was rushing to be first up the stairs. Maybe this could still work.

Sitting back and reaching into his cloak's pocket, the assassin placed his fingers upon the wand there, at the same time quickly whispering the words of a spell. A familiar shimmer enveloped him as he faded from sight.

A moment later a woman in dented scale armor topped the stairs. She looked to be over six feet tall, blockish in shape but awfully fast in motion; ugly, with a face full of scars and smeared with blood and dirt, a beak for a nose, dirty-blonde hair bound into two frayed braids, and thin, sneering lips. The instant she stepped onto the gambling floor her eyes alighted on Greywolf, briefly widened, then sharpening to a murderous glare.

"You!" the woman snarled, pointing with her longsword. She had been carrying a dueling dagger earlier, but it was gone, and the sword had switched to her right hand.

Greywolf had made to slouch against one of the chance-wheel tables, but now he took a cautious stance and faced the woman, and Marek grinned an invisible grin. Rashelt Dosan. He knew her by reputation. Also knew that there had been some bad blood between her and the old bounty hunter. And of course he had never mentioned her presence during their card games.

In a rush of heavy boots and clinking steel the Dosan woman charged across the room, her sword high and a warcry on her lips. Greywolf responded by bracing his legs and ripping his longsword free of its scabbard in a gust of curling frost. The ice-white blade pulsed, pointing up in a high guard, but Rashelt's sword streaked past it, zigzagging. Greywolf had to backslide a bit to tamp down on the blade with his own, steel ringing and grating as they slipped into a duel.

Marek had his wand out fully now, and his other hand carefully gripped his crossbow. No need to use the loaded bolt on the girl though, if she proved to be the next arrival. It would be a little redundant to poison her again, not to mention that Marek only had so much of the stuff, until the herbalist mixed up some more. If the bard, scout, or the priestess mounted the stairs first a bolt might be best for them though, and then he'd save the first, crucial blast of the paralysis wand for the girl. Keep her at a distance.

The rest he would play by ear.

There was a crash as Rashelt rolled across the surface of one of the gambling tables, sweeping cards and piles of petty coins into the air. She slipped off the edge and landed on her feet, leaning back a bit as Greywolf's sword bit into the wood, sending up a shower of brittle, icy splinters.

Rashelt kicked the table over and towards her foe, perhaps hoping to dislodge the sword from his fingers in the process, but Greywolf managed to raise his blade and counter with a kick of his own, sending the toppled table sliding at the woman. She leapt up as he did, balanced on the edge of the overturned table, and took a swing with her sword, steel ringing when the old man parried. An impressive display of fury and surefootedness, though there was something stiff about the way she carried her left arm through the motions.

All the while the old bounty hunter laughed and jeered. "Dosan's little girl," he taunted as he batted away a blow and took a hop back (to force Rashelt to leap after him, and open herself up for a blow, Marek judged.) "Now that's not a bounty I expected to fall into my lap tonight. Welcome though!"

Rashelt did leap, but it was a bit to the side, and her knees bent low as she landed, slipping under a slice of the frosted longsword and replying with an upward slash of her own. "The only thing landing in your lap will be the point of my blade, pig!" she snarled back.

"Not a pig. A wolf." Steel rang, boots scuffled the floor, and the dozen panicked gamblers who had backed away from the duel now huddled against the far wall.

"An old grey one. Slow–" A clang punctuated the word. "–blind–" Another sword-clash. "–and senile."

"Was fast enough for that old lover of yours. She never saw me coming. Blindsided while she was drunk and taking a piss. Quite a noble battle-death."

Taking a minor risk, Marek briefly closed his eyes and the lower part of the tavern appeared before him once again. The ogre was still now, and the girl had leapt off, the others still holding back at their respective walls, ranged weapons in hand.

And good! The girl was filling his field of vision now, charging the stairway. She'd be the next to the top.

Eyes snapping open, Marek fully dismissed the scrying spell (good riddance too: the alternating vision was starting to give him a headache) and pointed the wand at the top of the staircase. Not that _everything_ had worked out as planned, but so long as he remained back here and in control he could still time this and make it work. Stun the girl first. Then throw up a series of illusions that would give him cover. Next, a _true strike_ spell and a poisoned bolt for the drow priestess.

"Lover? Ha!" Rashelt was shouting, blade crisscrossing through the air to repel Greywolf's, move for move. She was in a low sidestance, left arm fully hidden behind her back. "You men make the stupidest assumptions." And now her elbow bent and her hand snatched at something at her belt, yanking a tiny dirk free. As she did that she swung high, knees straightening, pushing Greywolf's sword up and locking blades. "Never stop to think that…" And at the same time that she taunted she twisted and swung in with her little pig-sticker, attempting some blindsiding of her own.

Instead of the smooth motion that it needed to be, though, there was something jangly about the stab. A half-breath too slow. _Yeah_ , her left arm was definitely injured, by Marek's guess. A sprained wrist, or perhaps something was dislocated.

Greywolf was faster. He turned and sidestepped the stab, the edge of his sword sliding down Rashelt's as he slipped to her side. A flick of his wrist and their swords were untangled, her body slightly over-extended, and before she could pull back Greywolf's blade came chopping down. It sliced into the wrist of her sword arm, cleaving into bone and showering the floorboards with blood, some of it instantly turned to half-frozen slush. The woman looked down at her mangled, dislocated arm in shock, her hand hanging on by sinew mostly, and that gave Greywolf plenty of time to ram the jeweled pommel of his sword into her jaw and send her toppling over.

"The bounty only pays if you're alive. Lucky you."

At the same instant a streak of steel-grey and black topped the stairs, the girl with the twin swords leaping up the final flight. Her helmet was gone, and her dark, wet hair was a tangled mess. Her eyes blazed, sweeping the room. Searching.

Marek wasted no time straightening his arm and barking out the command word of his wand, flashing into the visible range as a ripple of energy shot across the room. It spread like a net and enveloped the girl, though at the instant that he appeared and spoke his target locked eyes with him, whirling.

Her eyes were blazing. Yes. Blazing! There even seemed to be a hint of golden fire there –a spark in the icy blue– as the heat-shimmer of the paralyzing magic roiled around her. The magical field closed, congealed, and then it flared up and burst, a wave of something seeming to counter it and roll out through the hall.

There were screams everywhere, the girl kept moving, and Marek's pulse quickened, blood running cold. The girl's face was locked in a grimace; a mask of fury.

Fury. A berserker. He had _not_ planned for _that_.

Fighting the compulsion to turn and run, Marek hefted his crossbow and began to intone the words of a simple illusion. There was panic everywhere, the gamblers who had huddled back now toppling tables to flee, and for a moment Marek felt a little relief when one of them sprinted headlong into the girl, sure to tangle her up.

But she barely seemed to slow as her leg swept the screaming man's feet out from under him, the pommel of one of her swords coming down to bash the back of his head at the same time and send the poor sod flopping, belly-first, to the floor. She never looked at the bystander through it all, her burning glare fixed on Marek and Marek alone.

The crossbow _thumped_ as the girl leapt over the fallen man, punching through mail just below her shoulder and turning her slightly. _That_ slowed her, knees bucking for just an instant, and at the same time Marek's spell took shape and four translucent doubles of himself bloomed and spread out.

But those blazing eyes stayed focused through it all. Fixed on Marek as he frantically snatched up another bolt and locked it into the mechanism of the bow, the wand abandoned at his feet. He managed to load it, but then she was _right_ there in front of him.

_ Damn!  _ There'd been no time to move; to mix himself up with the doubles. Now all he could do was desperately lift the crossbow.

And then –before he could even get off a blind shot– the bow came flying up into his face with a wet, jarring _crunch._ Marek didn't have time to stumble back; the girl stamped down on his foot right after the kick, and then he was bending forward and sharp, white-hot pain was flaring in his chest as he fell onto her sword.

* * *

The man's face contorted and puffed; now a cherry red. His feet were twitching and his hand was pawing for the dagger at his belt, but the clumsy fingers slipped and missed, and each grasp was more of a fumble as he was lifted off the floor –as she howled right in his face and drove her second sword up and through his chest.

Lifting. Howling. Lifting higher. A furious scream rising–rising– _rising_ from her throat.

On the periphery there was chaos. She could hear it. Feel it. The beat of the fleeing feet. Panicked screams. Bodies toppling, trampling, scrambling over each other to get to the stairs, limbs tangled. She could _smell_ the fear.

Her arms stretched further, elbows nearly straight, and held the convulsing man aloft on her swords. Bloody spittle ran down his chin. The fight was leaving him, the light dimming in his eyes. Almost over. And though his death looked as indignant as they all do, at least she smelled no fear.

Instead she just sensed frustration, annoyance, and a lot of pain. He knew that this was just business, between killers. His eyes fluttered. Struggled. Lifted. Looking over, looking beyond her. Was he seeing the other side? Cyric's realm? Or…no...he was _clearly_ looking at something. Almost seemed happy to-

Behind her!

There was a great cold _something_ looming there, an eye in the maelstrom of terror. Cold wafted against Ashura's cheek as she whirled, carrying the body with her. She made to _throw_ the dying man off her swords and at whatever it was that was attacking, but a jolt of ice-cold steel and the force of something striking her arm stopped her. Sent her stumbling back.

The assassin slipped from her swords and crashed to the floor at her feet, between her and the second man, whose longsword was now sweeping in for a backhand slash. His features were sharp as ice, rough as leather, little beady black eyes flashing in the lamplight and hoarfrost rolling off his blade.

Without the impaled man weighing them down her arms suddenly felt light as air, and it was easy enough to swing up and catch the longsword with a scissoring parry. Her swords formed a pincer and her arms twisted and worried one way, then another, trying to rip the blade from the man's grip.

That didn't work. He just held on and scowled. So the shoved his trapped sword aside and pushed in close: kneeing at his groin, bashing with her elbows, snapping her teeth when she got close enough to his face. His motions matched hers though, fluid and twisting away, feet always stamping and endlessly turning.

Suddenly he had the leverage, and with a sharp turn and a shoulder-shove he managed to throw her back; to disengage. She just leapt forward again, no time for breath or stances or positioning: a flurry of blades. Both of her swords sang, clanging against his again and again as he was forced to give ground, backing towards the stairway and the clog of people there, some struggling to get down the stairs and others shoving their way up.

The man with the sharp face tried to regain the momentum, pushing hard with each parry he made, all his strength going into the swings. Her blades were batted away and in the same motion he made his counterattack, sword streaking in and ice tickling the back of her neck as she ducked beneath the slash.

Ducked low –her body a spring– and then she turned that into a _leap._ His sword darted in on her left, of course, but it scraped against her lefthand blade as she flew, and righthand took the lead, all the way through the air and through the fur across his chest and the leather shirt beneath and the skin and muscle and bone and blood and out the other side.

They both tumbled over and the sharp-faced man struck the floor beneath her. The struggle continued down there: grappling and rolling and punching and clawing at each other like animals. But the man had a sword through his chest and Ashura didn't, and the fight left him quite a bit before it could be kicked out of her.

Ripping her blade free, Ashura shot to her feet, panting hard, soaked in blood, a sword at either side, and her eyes alighted on yet _another_ armed man in leathers, mounting the stairs. Snarling and flexing her wrists and her blades, she took a step forward.

"Uh…"

Then another.

"Ash?"

She blinked. The voice was familiar. The young man's face grimacing. Concerned. A few more blinks.

Gods. Her swords were so heavy. And she was so out of breath. And there was a great gash across her upper arm that was radiating an icy burn. And the entire front of her body was one sore ache, along with her jaw.

Oh. And there was a crossbow bolt in her chest.

"Garrick. I…" Her knees wobbled.

The shouting all around suddenly seemed distant. And the lamplight grew dim.

* * *

"You were _poisoned!?_ " At the same time that the voice screeched above her Ashura felt hands at her shoulders, violently shaking. "And you didn't tell me? You didn't _find_ me?"

Shake – Shake – Shake. Like she was a bag of potatoes.

"Ugh," was all that Ashura could manage at first, until she eventually pried her eyes open and looked about. Once again someone seemed to have put her injured self to bed, though the room was different. Unfamiliar.

And she had a bedmate this time: Shar-Teel was splayed out and limp on the other side of the hay-stuffed mattress, both of her arms bundled up across her chest and only her head sticking out from beneath the sheets and blankets. Her chin was pointed up, mouth open, and despite the noise and the shaking the big woman seemed dead to the world. Since the thought of cuddling up with Shar-Teel wasn't terribly appealing, Ashura was grateful that the bed was fairly large.

Scooting a bit and scrunching her eyes up tight, Ashura managed to sit up. "Ims…stop it."

The shaking relented, though Imoen continued to glare.

"We looked for you in the morning," Ashura offered. "At the Kegs. But they said you and Xan never showed up."

"Yup," Imoen admitted. "We got put up in this fancy mansion that night. After killing some doppelgangers and saving this rich guy. Long story." She puffed her lips out and blew a stray lock of hair away. "Hrmph. We need more of those magical communicationy mirrors. I was so worried when we couldn't find you!"

Ashura swiveled and planted her feet on the floor, brushing the covers away. _Ugh._ She still felt awful. Sore, raw, and bruised all over. They hadn't bothered with a dressing gown this time: all she wore were bandages, mostly across her chest and one of her thighs. At least moving about wasn't difficult. The weakness the poison had induced was gone, so she supposed she had been cured.

"Well, at least I'm still alive." She stretched a bit, noticing Garrick sprawled out in a chair at the far corner of the room. He looked nearly as out of it as Shar-Teel. "And so are you. Doppelgangers huh?"

"Yup. We think the Iron Throne is replacing their business rivals with 'em. Once you're all healed up hopefully you can help us exterminate the rest of the critters!"

"Uh. Sure. Sounds like fun." _Yay. More fighting._ It never ended, did it? Arms stretching over her head, Ashura wrinkled her nose. "Ugh. I smell awful don't I?"

Imoen giggled. "Yup. There's a wash-basin over there."

A bath would have been nice, but a few dabs from the basin sufficed for the time being, and she was grateful when Imoen offered her a clean change of clothes. As Ashura was stepping into a pair of woolen hose leggings the door creaked and a cheerful Amnish man stepped through, arms piled high with white linens and Viconia silently trailing behind him.

"Oh…my…my apologies," Lothander stammered as he averted his eyes. "I thought you were still…" He cleared his throat. "And let me reassure you that it was my wife and the drow priestess who uh…attended to your wounds while you were sleeping."

Ashura shrugged. "Thanks for curing the poison." Lothander's home, above his shop. That's where they were. She had vague memories of stumbling through the city streets, half-conscious, trying to reach the place.

Lothander nodded, eyes down even after Ashura had slipped her tunic on and buckled it into place. "Of course. Your mage friend, Brielbara, helped quite a bit too. Sure knows her curses."

"How about her?" Ashura asked, pointing a thumb towards Shar-Teel and the bed.

Lothander frowned at the floor. "We poured a lot of healing potions on her wounds, along with your priestess' prayers. And I reset and bound the bones in her wrist as best I could but…well… her hand was hanging halfway off when she got here. Not sure if she'll ever be able to use it again. Probably best to keep her in bed for several days too, at the least. And to keep giving her poppy extract. I've plenty of that."

Ashura nodded.

There was a long object slung under Viconia's arm, and she gave Ashura a slight nod when she glanced over, stepping aside as Lothander excused himself. "An impressive display, yestereve, _khal'abbil_ ," Viconia noted once the herbalist was gone, her lips curling in a slight, ferial smile. "Vengeance was secured, and nothing stood in your way."

"Thanks." Ashura frowned, foggy memories of the battle coming to mind: the screaming, panicked man she had batted aside with a kick and a pommel-strike. _Hope I didn't cave his skull in._

"Truly," Viconia continued, extending her arm and holding out the object she had brought: a scabbarded longsword with an ornate brass hilt and what looked like a ruby imbedded in the cross of the guard. "And I am most grateful for the tome, of course. I plucked this weapon from the battlefield as we fled, off the corpse of one of the males you slew. If I am not mistaken it carries the blessings of the Nightsinger. A blade as cold as the void, and keen for seeking out vengeance."

Reaching out, Ashura drew the sword from its sheath and tested the weight. The sight of the frost-mist wafting off the steel made her shiver, but she felt no actual chill. Perhaps the magic of the sword protected its wielder? And despite being longer than the swords she was used to, the weapon weighed next to nothing in her hand.

"Your pet male claimed to know the name of the blade. 'Varscona,' he called it."

Ashura rolled her eyes, glancing over at Garrick's sleeping form. She was tempted to point out that Garrick was _not_ her pet. 'Boyfriend' was the appropriate, Heartlander term, at least in her opinion. Probably pointless to try to explain the concept to a drow, though. So instead she said: "A fine sword. And I suppose we still have some vengeance to seek."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Celamity. Just wanted you to know that your fics were totally the inspiration for Varscona and Greywolf showing up here in this somewhat late chapter. The sword probably won't have the same thematic significance as it did in Ember's Tale, but I was thinking 'Ashura really could use a weapon upgrade' and Varscona just seemed perfect.


	69. The Usual Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein doppelgangers splatter

_ "I suppose we could do all of that. Orrr we could just go a'chargin' in, swords swingin' and spells flyin'!"  _ –Grechori Ithar of Rashemen, after his witch finished explaining her elaborate plan to infiltrate a night hag's fortress. He got his way, much to the witch's annoyance.

* * *

"I am still not entirely clear on why we have to be…well…portly."

"Because we're merchants," Imoen answered, as if that made perfect sense, tapping her new and significant paunch with a giggle.

"That does not…" Xan stammered, shaking his head. "I fail to see what being overweight has to do with the mercantile profession."

"Oh pish! It's what people expect: fat merchants, burly guardsmen, dirty rogues, sun-scorched peasants, and primped-up nobles. That's the key to a perfect disguise. If they don't see any big stuff out'a place they won't notice the seams." She pursed her lips. "Wait, why am _I_ giving _you_ a lecture on spycraft?"

Xan sighed. "Because making the illusion overly complicated can lead to the 'seams' –as you put it– showing. My inclination would be to retain my elven form, and simply dull the color of my clothes and features somewhat. And hide the moonblade, of course. Moon elf merchants are hardly unheard of. And it would be easier to move about convincingly-"

"Ya, maybe," Imoen admitted, her tone still one of protest. "But I've already used up my disguising spell." She gestured at the bedroom mirror before her, a very un-Imoen-like reflection waving back: sandy-blonde hair tied high in an elaborate bun above a wide, weathered face. A rumpled, burgundy blouse covered her exceptionally ample bosom, belted over a dark grey ankle skirt and pinned with an emerald broach. The outfit was sturdy, plain, and finely made; implying a firm foot in the middle class. And all illusionary, of course.

Truly, Xan had to admit that it was a finely crafted spell.

"And now that I'm a chubby merchant-lady," Imoen went on, "we'll look totally mismatched if you disguise yerself as a spindly elf." A thoughtful look crossed her face, then she snapped her fingers. "Oh! Idea! You could stay thin, but disguise yerself as a human woman. We could be like…sisters or something!"

Xan sighed once again. Of _course_ she would think of that. Of _course_ she would turn a simple infiltration into an elaborate game of dress-up-dolly. "Despite what some may think," he stated, "that is not a disguise that works particularly well for me."

"Aw. But yer-"

"I am not…confident that I could get the lady-like walk down properly," he admitted. "So…" His tone resigned, Xan began to chant the words of his own disguising spell, picturing it all in his mind's eye: the altered girth, duller colors, simpler clothes, and the round, ruddy face of a well-worn human ( _Hm. Best not to overdo it. Though perhaps I should add a small hat. They often wear those._ )

Once the light of the glamer had settled Xan turned and faced the mirror, shifting a bit from side to side as he gave his new form a critical inspection. The dimensions seemed proper enough, and the face that peered back was just the sort he would recognize at a butcher's stand or a baker's counter. The face also seemed well suited for holding a firm, commanding expression. Better that than pretending to be one of those 'jolly' merchants.

It was a bit of a disjointed feeling: being as light on his feet as usual but appearing to carry the extra width, height and mass. It would take him a bit of practice to come up with a proper stride and adjust his body language, but hopefully he could master that on the walk to the Seven Suns compound.

"Nice illusion," Imoen remarked, and he nodded in agreement. This could work. It could even be, as Imoen would put it: 'Fun.' Turning, they made for the door of their suite.

"Wicked idea!" the girl added as they walked. "Once we're an old married couple and things start to get dull and routine we can spice things up with these disguising spells! Hmm. I bet wizard couples do that a lot."

Xan couldn't help but chuckle slightly, shaking his head.

"Ulp. Not to get ahead of myself or anything…"

"This is…not the most romantic setting for a marriage proposal," Xan admitted diplomatically. "But illusions. I shall keep that in mind." Imoen did make such delightful and creative use of those, in ways that he would have never conceived of. The illusionary 'duel' she had fought with that annoying gnome came to mind. Perhaps he could surprise her sometime…

_ No. Whatever I come up with would likely fall flat. _

Walking the halls and stairways of the Three Old Kegs, Xan had plenty of time to practice moving in his new 'body.' Eventually they reached the taproom, where Ashura, Garrick and Viconia awaited, prepared in their own way for the trip to the merchant coster. Those three were to play the role of 'bodyguards,' and Garrick at least had put a lot of effort into his disguise. Makeup had been used to roughen up his features, adding stubble, scars, and some subtle smudges, and his normally neat hair was ruffled up a bit. Scuffed studded leather had replaced his clean brown vest and jacket, along with a black hooded cloak.

Xan recalled that the others often teased the pretty bard about not being able to 'pass' as a street thug for some of their rougher jobs, but Garrick seemed to play the part well enough today, and without overdoing it. A shame Shar-Teel was not here to see, though she would likely have come up with a way to insult the bard regardless of _what_ he actually did.

The swordswoman was still recovering in Lothander's spare room, sleeping soundly thanks to the poppy extract. They had thrown every bit of healing magic that they could at her right arm, but she still had a lot of recovering ahead of her, and it was uncertain whether or not her hand would be lame once the plaster cast came off. 'If my fingers don't work,' she had muttered at one point, obviously a bit drugged, 'let's just hack the hand off and replace it with a blade.'

Garrick had put effort into his disguise, but Ashura had just come dressed as herself, and Viconia was swathed in her usual formless cloak and cowl. Imoen approached them, and after a little bit of proclaiming that 'Yes, it's really us!' the five formed up and exited the inn, taking the south street.

From there they banked further south and west, around the Wide and towards the opulent corner of the city that seemed to be favored by guilds: an area that overlooked the bay but was far enough from the water to avoid the overpowering smell of dead fish. It was a neighborhood with clean, even streets, close to the Flaming Fist headquarters and thus well protected.

Protected from without, at least.

It was midday, but the sun had once again failed to peak through a bruised, black-grey sky, and when a gust of autumn wind picked up across the open thoroughfare Xan found himself clutching his cloak tight. A few more meandering blocks went by in silence, and then the compound was looming before them once again; a spoked sun proudly displayed on a sky blue backdrop above the double doors. _The Seven Suns._

Finding himself more or less in the lead of their odd little procession, Xan halted briefly to compose himself. "We must both act and _think_ our parts here," he told his companions. "These creatures utilize a mild form of telepathy, but they cannot delve deep into your minds. Simply focus on walking about and observing, as we are here to do, and nothing further."

"Don't think _'doppelganger,'_ " Imoen put in. "Got it! Easy enough."

"Yes." Frowning, Xan took a deep breath.

"Let's get this over with," Ashura muttered.

"Uh. Yes," Xan repeated, realizing that he was procrastinating. They crossed the open cobbles, approached the double doors, and then once he had reached them Xan made a fist and wrapped gently.

A little wait, then he knocked again.

It took some time, but eventually one of the doors creaked inward and a gentleman with a bristly moustache poked his head and shoulders out, peering at them with a blank expression. "Yes?"

Xan inclined his head slightly. "We are merchants from Waterdeep," he stated, doing what he could to put a little bass in his voice ( _But do not overdo it. Do not overdo it._ ) "My wife and I. We are here to tour your facilities and look into the possible hire of a caravan."

The servant cocked his head, and Xan gave a slight sigh. "We sent a letter ahead." They had, in fact. Complete with a forged seal that Imoen had picked up from the Thieves' House.

A shrug was the servant's only reply, but he stepped back and pulled the door open further, a gesture ushering the party forward. Xan and Imoen entered first, followed by their little train of guards, and the man made no comment. Things felt a little prickly already ( _Shouldn't a servant be more…polite?_ ), but at least they had gotten their feet through the door.

There was something off about the great foyer of the merchant house as well, though Xan could not quite put his finger on it. Not at first. It seemed an ordinary and well-kept place after all; a bit like the Merchant League's halls in terms of opulence, though the style was different.

Black and white checkered patterns were favored here, both on the polished floors and ceilings, along with similar designs running beneath the ornate banisters that led to higher floors. The entire greeting hall was cavernous and bright, lined with tall windows and teaming with potted plants. Teaming with merchants as well: perhaps a dozen people stood in little clumps beneath the skylights and pillars, facing each other and clutching scrolls or books beneath their arms.

All in absolute silence. In fact the foyer was as still and quiet as a sepulture, not a footfall or even a breath echoing off the marble. It was as if the merchants were all statues, frozen in a facsimile of polite conversation.

_ Oh.  _ And all the potted plants were brown and wilted.

Every head in the foyer turned, in perfect unison, towards the newcomers. Xan took a deep breath and rubbed his hands together, frowning over at Ashura. She had reached for her sword.

And then every face and body in the chamber blurred, many of the more corpulent merchants thinning and elongating. Xan's heart leapt and he took an involuntary step back, though a part of him was wholly unsurprised. Why should the creatures make any pretense once they _know_ that you _know_ what they are?

_ Oh  _ ** why  ** _ did I think that this foolish plan would work? 'Don't think doppelganger' indeed! _

A few paces to Xan's left one of the faceless things –the butler who had opened the door– was letting out an agonized hiss, its limbs flailing as Ashura shoved it backwards, impaled on her sword. Over the creature's dying cries the girl chuckled grimly. "Looks like we're doing this the usual way. Figured." She sounded quite pleased with herself.

Pivoting in unison and stretching out their spindly arms and knife-sharp fingers, the rest of the doppelgangers rushed forward in a blur of smooth grey skin and flapping, overlarge clothing.

* * *

A spray of black blood splattered the narrow stone steps, followed by a long, delicate limb. It flopped and wobbled like a chicken leg, striking stair after stair on the way down. Somehow the creature that the arm had belonged to managed not to completely pitch over, bracing its back against the wall and gripping at its stump. Still, that pause made the thing enough of a target that it was a simple matter for Ashura to twist in and lunge, skewering the creature on her lefthand blade.

_ There! I – Ack!  _ Her breath caught as she felt her boot slip forward on the slick stone step; sliding out from under her. Dancing to stay upright led to her pressing up against the doppelganger, suddenly embracing the clammy, wriggling thing. It –naturally– didn't cooperate, and then they were both pitching over, the creature's remaining hand clawing at her shoulder and its blank face pressed up against her cheek.

They struck the stairs, then they were rolling and sliding; _bumpity-bumpity-bump_ against each step. The doppelganger took the worst of it, its back striking the stairs every time, and when they hit the bottom and finally settled the creature was still beneath her.

For some reason, laying there and wincing at the jarring pain in her left arm, Ashura recalled stories she had read as a child about the joys of riding sleds down snowy hills in the winter, and how she and Imoen had lamented that there were no real hills (or sleds) in Candlekeep. Was sledding anything like the ride she had just taken? Probably not.

Yanking her short sword free and shuffling to her feet, Ashura found herself in some sort of basement, lit only by a couple of flickering torches. A glance back and she noticed Garrick descending the stairs behind her, careful to step around the blood slick. Then movement ahead drew her eyes, and she looked over to find a bearded man approaching from the shadows. His arms were raised, palms showing, and he was wearing some sort of leather apron over a stained shirt.

"Oh thank the gods yer here," the stranger blurted out, rushing towards her, but he halted when Ashura hefted Varscona between them and pointed with the blade, flicking ichor and frost at the man.

"Back!" she snarled.

Something like annoyance flickered across the man's face. Then something more. _Yeah._ His face had definitely wavered and rippled. His eyes met hers, there was a flash of recognition, and then the doppelganger gave up the charade, blurring and lunging.

Its body brushed the wall, ducking in past the extended sword, but Ashura managed a quick diagonal cut that drew a shallow gash and smashed the creature against the stone. With a twist the thing retaliated, raking out with a massive hand ( _The damn thing grew_!) and forcing Ashura to hop back. The other elongated, boneless arm swept in –whip-like– over the creature's head, but it stopped with a quiver when Ashura caught the limb on her lefthand sword.

She followed through with a stab, her momentum and the creature's both driving Varscona through the thing's torso in a burst of ice and ichor. Stuck on the sword like a fish, the creature shook violently, and at the same time Ashura bent her knees, braced herself, and began to draw the longsword up and up, through parting, frost-brittle flesh.

The writhing intensified, and the blade dragged and sliced its way up a finger-width at a time, finally sawing through the creature's shoulder and bursting free in a shower of black blood. With that the doppelganger seemed to crumble into a boneless heap at Ashura's feet.

There was something almost…reassuring about the bizarre, deflating sound that these things made when they were wounded or dying, so different from the noise of a human or even an animal in pain. Nice to be fighting genuine monsters instead of people. If a bit strange and unnerving.

They were soft, almost spongy things; easily sliced thanks to their lack of true bones, but at the same time they could be devilishly fast. Their lack of joints meant that their limbs could come swinging in from unexpected angles, and when those fists struck it was near as hard as a mace. If the creatures had actually trained to use weapons they could have been extremely deadly, but for some reason they favored simply trying to grapple and strangle.

A good time to be wielding a longsword that kept that sort of thing at bay, Ashura supposed. She was still getting used to the new weapon: a little awkward in a close hall like this, and though it was light for a longsword it seemed she couldn't quite wield it with the same finesse as a smaller blade. The keen, enchanted edge and the magical ice did seem to compensate for the lack of speed, at least.

Turning from the fallen creature, Ashura found herself looking down the torch-lit hall and directly into large, familiar eyes. "Whew!" Imoen exclaimed as she stepped out from the shadows of the cellar and approached. "That guy had me cornered! Glad ya got him Shura!"

Ashura blinked. A moment ago Imoen had been scurrying up a pillar in the entrance hall to avoid the initial press of doppelgangers, her magical disguise abandoned and some climbing spell helping her stick to the marble. How had she gotten down here so fast?

_ Uh.  _ And Imoen had been wearing violet, come to think of it.

Once again Ashura's swords rose and pointed forward. "Stop!"

Imoen (dressed in gaudy green silks that hung loose on her frame) just cocked her head, a baffled look on her face, and kept on marching forward.

Eyes widening and knuckles going white as she gripped the hilt of Varscona, Ashura just watched her friend advance. This had to be a…but what if it wasn't…how could she..?

Behind her there was a soft _plink_ and something buzzed by, striking Imoen and sending her reeling backwards. The girl steadied herself a step later, glancing down at the crossbow bolt that had just buried itself in her breast with a blank, uncomprehending look. Then, instead of pain or hurt or anger, that look just blurred and Imoen's face turned to putty, the color leaving her hair as it stretched into a bald, bulbous head.

That was enough to get Ashura's feet moving; arms swinging and blades slicing forward. A few furious slashes and the third doppelganger collapsed before her with a hiss. Once it was still she glanced to the side, noticing that Garrick was right beside her now, a tense smile on his face. "She was wearing the wrong clothes," he offered.

"Yup," Imoen (dressed in her usual pink and violet) agreed as she sauntered down the stairs, her bow in hand.

Shaking her head, Ashura turned, examining the cellar a bit more closely. There was a chamber up ahead, stacked high with barrels and boxes, and beyond that the hall curved. A reinforced door that appeared to have a barred window was just visible at the beginning of the branch. A dungeon, perhaps?

Curious, Ashura made her way forward, swords leading the way. "Let's keep close if we can," she suggested.

"A wise course," Xan agreed as he made his way down the stairs as well, followed by Viconia. "As you can see, given half the opportunity, these things will attempt to disguise themselves as one of us."

"Funny that they keep choosing me," Imoen put in. "Guess I should be flattered."

"We'll search here, then try the upstairs and the offices."

Ashura approached the barred door, the torchlight casting long, shifting shadows and doing little to light her way. She tried the handle but it was locked, and peering through the small window she caught a glimpse of neatly stacked boxes on one side of the room, along with what seemed to be furniture piled up in the other corner. Seemed to have been a storage area once, though it was clearly being used as a sort of prison now. The filthy pile of hay, bucket, and the bound man looking at her with glassy, questioning eyes from the far side of the room made that clear.

After Mulahey's chamber, Tazok's camp, and the Cloakwood mines, this fellow was a familiar enough sight: starved, dirt-stained, and disheveled; his boney shoulders stooped and his face covered by a mess of unkempt beard-growth. The prisoner even wore something similar to the loincloths of the Cloakwood slaves, though it had frayed and rotted down to almost nothing. Along with a few strips of rag that hung off his shoulders it was likely the remains of what had once been his smallclothes. His bare skin was marred in countless places by dark, untreated scabs and gouges.

As Imoen unlocked the door and pulled it aside the ragged man watched suspiciously, still sitting back against the far side of the room. His hands were shackled together in his lap and his ankles were bound as well, the lower chain tethered to the nearby wall. Ashura approached him, swords raised and stride cautious.

"This some trick?" the prisoner finally asked in a low, raspy voice. "You one of the elders? Come to eat my brain?"

"Hardly," Ashura replied. "But if _you're_ playing some game with us-"

"This man is no doppelganger," Xan stated flatly.

"You sure?"

"Quite. Their minds are very…bizarre. This man's thinking, in contrast, is quite human."

Ashura's brow furrowed as she glanced over at the elf. "Wait. You can read our minds?"

"There is a spell that allows me to listen to surface thoughts, yes. Do not worry. There is nothing between your ears that I would care to hear."

Ashura snorted, stepping closer to the prisoner and lowering her blades, and Imoen slipped in past her, kneeling and offering open hands. "I can help ya out of those shackles," she offered. "Okay?"

"We're not brain eaters," Ashura added. "And seems you're not one either. So who are you anyway?"

The prisoner seemed to relax a little, not resisting when Imoen started examining his bindings, nor when Garrick moved in to offer the man his cloak. "Jhasso." Before he could go on a dry, ragged cough wracked the prisoner's throat, followed by another and another, and when Garrick handed him a waterskin he drank greedily. "Thank you lad." A nod and a few more coughs followed. "Jhasso, of Jhasso's Fast Haul Wagons. Proud founder of the Seven Suns." He gave a grim little chuckle. "For what it's worth."

"So the doppels do keep people alive," Imoen observed in a cheerful tone. "Maybe there's more prisoners down here…" The look on Jhasso's face had her trailing off into silence, which was broken a moment later by the sharp click of one of his manacles snapping open.

"Sometimes I wish they hadn't. Kept me alive, that is. Not been an easy time down here."

"Ya," Imoen agreed. "Sure looks like it."

"And why were you kept alive?" Xan asked impassively.

The man looked over at the open doorway, eyes distant. "Men in hoods and masks came down here from time to time. Think they were humans, since the shapeshifters never bothered to hide their real faces from me once they had me prisoner. The men wanted to know everything I could tell them about the Suns. Every asset, where everything's buried, all the details I could remember about the other six and their underlings. Tried to be hardheaded at first but…they pried it all out of me. One of the bastards kept saying they'd just get an elder doppelganger to eat my brain and replace me, soon as one of the things wasn't busy on a bigger mission. Maybe that was just meant to scare me, but I've heard of such things."

Ashura had too. The bestiaries mentioned that the oldest of the creatures could go a step beyond mere trickery and completely subsume a person's identity, devouring all of their memories and skills. There was supposedly no way to tell the difference between the replacement and the original.

"But that was hardly the worst of it," Jhasso went on. "Oh. Thank you dear." He rubbed his wrists and stretched his legs a bit, finally free of the iron shackles.

"The worst of it?" Xan prompted.

Jhasso's head turned towards the neatly arranged wooden crates that rested by one of the storage room's walls: rows and rows of them stacked shoulder high. "The grey bastards kept…" His voice cracked and he clinched his eyes shut, head turning away. It was a moment before he was something close to composed again, though he didn't open his eyes, and now the words came tumbling out. "They kept bringing people down here. A few times they were alive, and I'd have a cellmate for…for a day or so. But mostly it was corpses. The bodies of my…people. The creatures would sort through their belongings, store things away in those boxes. Documents, jewelry, valuables, clothes if there wasn't one of the things ready to…dress up as one of them." His voice wavered again. "Ilmater's mercy…"

"The bodies?" Xan asked quietly.

Jhasso took a deep breath. "There's a shaft down the hall, deeper in the cellars. Leads to the sewers. I'd guess they dragged them there."

"We came here to follow up on an investigation of this place. Led by a Commander Scar of the Flaming Fist."

That made Jhasso's eyes snap open and grow wide, looking up at Xan.

"Do you know him?" Xan asked.

A furious nod. "Oh yeah. Big fellow. Bald head. And that distinct scar of his. I knew him. Saw him in this very chamber too, some time ago. One of the corpses."

Xan inclined his head slightly, not seeming the least bit surprised.

* * *

It was easy enough to follow the raised voices that echoed up from the lower barracks, though Grand Duke Eltan was annoyed to actually be _doing_ so. Wasn't this exactly the sort of thing that underlings were for? Delegation and all that. Every part of the well-oiled mechanism doing its part.

Eltan's boots clicked in time with Benjy's as they wound their way down the tower steps. "Jhasso the Caravaner, you said?"

"Aye sir," the sergeant replied. "Though I barely recognized him. Looks like he's been through the Abyss and back. Said he was here to lodge a complaint, and won't leave until he delivers it directly to Scar."

"I still fail to see why in blazes Scar isn't handling this then."

"Uh…well…" Benjy was at a bit of a loss. Sounded nervous too.

Slowing, Eltan turned narrow eyes upon the sergeant. "What is it?"

"Permission to speak-"

"Yes, yes. Out with it." They had both stopped now.

"Honestly sir, the big guy has been acting a bit strange lately. We haven't seen much of him, beyond a few tours to inspect the walls and the new drills. Seems to defer most things to Commander Dosan. I mean, I know Dosan's technically the Section Commander here at the fort, but you know how hands-on Scar usually is. Just seems odd."

Eltan scowled. It did. Very odd. So much for a well-oiled mechanism.

Frustrating that he was just hearing about this now, when Benjy's tone implied that this had been barracks gossip for a while, but then again Eltan had always believed that hovering like a mother hen over all of his underlings could be just as bad as not leading at all. It was always a delicate balance. And when had he not been able to trust _Scar_ of all people to handle things?

Eltan reached down, rubbing the golden bracelet on his wrist and focusing his thoughts. _Moruene?_

_ Yes dear? _

_ I need your help. _

_ Shocking! I'll be right down. _

A moment later a quicksilver portal burst into being on the stairway and the wizardess stepped through, dressed in her usual black robes; grey hair tied up in a bun atop her head. She shared a glance with Eltan, and out of old habit they continued their conversation through their bracelets.

_ Have you talked with Hurbold recently? _ Eltan asked.

Moruene frowned. _He hasn't called on me in…maybe a month, come to think of it. I've been busy with the apprentices most of that time though._

_ Hmm.  _ Turning, Eltan hurried down the stairs, the sergeant and the archmage following at his heels.

_ What's going on? _

_ A bad feeling. And not just mine. Seems there's disquiet among the troops. _

A low, gravelly voice met their ears as they entered the next chamber. "Well, you look like some beggar to me," it growled. "And I don't care who you _claim_ to be. Commander Scar is not seeing any visitors."

Eltan took the scene in in a glance. Angelo Dosan, the warmage who'd recently made commander, stood before the ironclad door that led into Scar's suite, and the stranger standing in front of him truly did look like a beggar. Or at least a very sickly fellow. He was underfed, with matted hair and a bristled beard, a cloak wrapped tight around his frail shoulders (though he seemed to wear sturdy clothes beneath,) and he seemed to only be staying upright with the support of a boy in leathers and a girl dressed in pastels. There were other strangers close by those three: an elf in purple robes with a moonblade sheathed at his belt, a girl in chainmail, and a heavily shrouded figure that looked to be a female drow. Several Flaming Fist guards stood on the outskirts of the room, watching and wary.

"Now take that elf who put you up to this," Commander Dosan continued "and get-"

"No visitors, eh?" Eltan asked as strolled into the room, slipping an arm over Moruene's shoulder. "Surely Scar'll make an exception for his friends going on…oh what is it now?"

"About thirty-five years, dear," Moruene estimated.

"Sir!" Commander Dosan snapped to attention, eyes wide and boots clicking together.

"And ma'am," Moruene stated pointedly, disengaging from her partner and marching towards the door that the commander seemed to have been guarding.

As she did that Eltan approached the strangers, and the disheveled man looked directly into his eyes, gaze hard and steely. Eltan inclined his head slightly. "Lord Jhasso." Benjy had been right, this _was_ the merchant lord. Right about him looking like all Nine Hells too.

"What?!" Commander Dosan reeled a little, taken aback. "This really is…I thought surely…"

Raising a fist, Moruene banged hard on the door. "Scar!" she shouted at the top of her lungs. "Get that broad arse of yours out here this instant!" There was no immediate response, and Moruene crossed her arms and gave the door an impatient glare. Pondering what sort of spell to blast the thing down with once she had counted to ten, by Eltan's guess. Having lived with dragons in her youth and soldiers in her middle years, Moruene was not a patient woman.

"A good thing you're here," Jhasso said, drawing the grand duke's attention. His voice was raspy, and he struggled to get the words out. "Your man Scar. He is not himself."

"What do you mean?" Eltan asked sharply.

"I was taken prisoner recently, by doppelgangers. While they had me…"

He was cut off by the sound of Moruene hissing out a lightning-quick incantation, the Draconic words coming out a bit like a curse. She waved her hand over the lock before her as she spoke, there was a faint white flash, and then she flung the door fully open with a kick.

And there, standing right in the doorway, was a tall, broad, and familiar figure; bald head coming to a bit of a point and beard speckled with grey. A jagged dueling scar ran down his cheek, next to lips that were upturned in a jolly grin. Eyes gleaming with amusement, the giant's familiar voice rumbled out. "And here I was just opening the door. But you never had much patience, eh Moruene?"

Eltan found himself smiling, for the moment at ease. Perhaps this was all just a misunderstanding. But then he glanced over at Moruene, and the look on her face made his blood run cold.

"No, I never did," Moruene agreed. "It's how you got that scar, after all."

The big man's smile broadened, no flicker of recognition in his eyes.

_ But that's not- Oh.  _ Eltan's face fell.

With a sweep of her hand Moruene gestured at the strangers who had filled the room. "You've got quite a queue of folks trying to get a word. Strange of you to hide from them. Or from _me._ We haven't talked in what? A month?"

The jolly smile stayed on Scar's face, though his voice grew a little bashful. "Well ma'am, I've been rather busy. Looking into the iron crisis, and making sure we're well fortified in case there's war."

Moruene nodded. "I understand. We've all been rather busy. I have my apprentices, and Eltan's been managing the operations in Maztica and Tethyr. But Scar…"

The big man cocked his head.

"You've never called me 'ma'am' in your entire life."

Scar chuckled. "Well, it's never too late to try a little decorum. As an example for the men."

But Moruene ignored his reassurances, her fingers raised and twirling as she whispered something. There was a faint white flicker across her eyes, they widened, and then they focused to a glare; dangerously sharp.

Scar noticed, and he began to inch a bit to one side, easing away from the doorway and placing his back to the wall, though the smile and jolly crinkle in his eyes stayed fixed. That look seemed out of place now. Vacant, even.

Pointing a finger, a quick gesture away from launching a spell, Moruene asked pointblank: "Who did this?" Her words were almost soft. Sad.

Scar shook his head slightly, then sighed. "I told them." And then his voice shifted, rumbling baritone becoming something flat and genderless. " _Told them they needed to send an elder to subsume this one_." And with that he leapt, springing forward like a lizard despite his bulk, both arms elongating as they clawed out at Moruene's face.

There was a burst of light and his fingers just struck a wall, arcane defenses flaring all around the wizardess. The brilliant flash of protections flung the big man backwards, and at the same instant Moruene flicked her fingers and growled out a few furious syllables, the air warping before her. The shimmer surged forward and enveloped Scar, and for a moment he struggled within it, limbs flailing and body contorting.

It was merely a stunning spell –Eltan was certain– but for some reason the big man was changing before his eyes: wide, round face sharpening, ruddy skin growing grey, and his mass shrinking away. In the blink of an eye Scar seemed to shed a good ten stone.

A brief struggle, and then the doppelganger wriggled free of the paralyzing spell, stumbling back into the wall and sweeping the room with its amber, amphibious eyes. They fixed on Eltan, the creature's movements making Scar's oversized clothes fall away like shed skin. Then it sprang free of the outfit completely and flew past Moruene.

The creature landed like a frog, a good three strides in front of the grand duke, stumbling and staggering as a flurry of arcane bolts flew from Commander Dosan's fingertips and struck it in the side, leaving scorch marks and sending up a puff of smoke. It seemed to shrug the blast off, however, launching forward again and closing the distance with Eltan. Sharp fingers led the way, aiming for the grand duke's head.

In a streak of steel and a spray of black blood Eltan's dagger bit into the creature's neck as he ducked beneath the thing, reflexes taking hold before he could even think. The bulk of the naked, scrawny thing collided with his shoulder and then he turned sharply, throwing it off and sending it flying towards the nearby wall, where it struck with a wet, boneless _thunk._

Eltan whirled to fully face the thing again, but it was already twitching and letting out a raspy sound, long fingers curling up towards the ceiling like the legs of a dead spider. The grand duke's jaw just fell, eyes wide.

_ Hurbold!  _ That _thing_ had been pretending to be Hurbold. Under their noses. For how long?

Stomping a heel against the floor, Eltan whirled around. "We need answers! Who sent this thing? Do you know?"

Jhasso's lips tightened and he looked down at his feet, shaking his head. "They never told me. Just held me prisoner in my own basement and…" He swallowed. "I always guessed that old Rieltar was behind it all. The Iron Throne. They'd been trying to shut us down for a while before all this, with every dirty trick they could think of."

Eltan scowled. "Guess? We cannot guess! We need solid leads if we are to track down Scar."

Jhasso's face tightened even more, and he continued not to meet Eltan's eyes, head shaking slightly.

"What?" Eltan demanded.

"Your man Scar. I saw him, in my cell. Later, they…dragged his corpse down to the sewers, I think. I'm sorry."

Once again Eltan's jaw fell, though he forced it to tighten, biting down hard and turning a glare towards the crumpled form of the shapeshifter.

_ Scar. Hurbold.  _ This didn't seem real. After all that had happened. All the battles over the past three decades. The assassination attempts. The monsters they had faced down. The disastrous expedition to Anchorome.

Hurbold had faced all of that and survived, only to be swallowed up by some unseen conspiracy of face-shifters? It hardly seemed fitting. He deserved a true, Tempus-granted battle-death.

Turning to Benjy, Eltan began to bark out orders. "Find Lieutenant Dilos. I want the Seven Suns compound stormed immediately. Search it top to bottom, especially the basement and any adjoining passages into the sewers. If Scar's body is truly there I want it _found._ And search the upper levels of the compound, especially for any correspondence that the Suns were keeping." Doubtful that the shapeshifters would leave a paper trail, but…

One of the strangers –the red-haired girl in pastels– had knelt down beside the pile of clothes that the doppelganger had shed. "Mebee this is something?" she suggested, lifting a few leaves a parchment out from the bunched-up fabric. "If yer looking for correspondence? He was carrying a lot of pap- oh!" She started slightly when the papers gusted from her fingers and flew into Moruene's awaiting hands, carried by a spell. The wizardess looked down and began to read, eyes skeptical.

"Hmm," Moruene eventually muttered. "These may well be something."

"The creature was carrying orders?" Eltan asked, incredulous.

His partner shrugged. "Written in a cypher; all dwarvish runes scrambled to gibberish. So it's _something_ important." Holding up the parchment and taking a deep breath, Moruene began to chant. It soon became clear that this was not a simple spell, continuing for what seemed like a minute. And then longer still.

As time passed Moruene's melodic words seemed to take shape, white mist and ghosts of symbols forming at her lips and rising to circle the crown of her head, wheeling and gradually darkening to the color of storm clouds. Her words climbing to a crescendo, she threw her head back, and moats of light broke through the clouds in dozens of places and illuminated her face; eyes suddenly a blazing white.

From somewhere beyond the clouds inhuman voices hummed in patterns that barely seemed like any sort of language, and Moruene responded to them by posing a carefully worded question. "If the words in this letter were dictated then who dictated them, and if not whose hand wrote them?"

More incoherent humming, then in a flash the clouds scattered and the light died. Pinching her eyes tightly shut, Moruene shook herself a bit, blinking. "Well that tells it dead and plain…" she muttered.

"Tells what?"

"It's Rieltar Anchev's handwriting."

Eltan nodded, turning to the corner where one of the corporals had been standing and staring, dumbfounded. "You. Kent. Fetch my armor, my sword, and however many soldiers can be mustered within a quarter hour to form up and storm the Iron Throne's headquarters."

One of the strangers who had escorted Jhasso into the fortress, the elf with the moonblade, stepped forward. "We wish to assist as well."

"You do?"

"Duty-"

"Yeah," the gruff voice of the woman in chain armor interrupted the elf, ice-blue eyes meeting Eltan's. "We do."

"You lead these freelancers?" the grand duke asked. "What's your name?"

"Ashura Adrian."

"Ah. You fought off the Black Talons, right?"

She nodded.

"Well, I've no time or patience to negotiate fees, but if you care to you're welcome to accompany us to the tower."

"Wouldn't miss it. Seems we owe this Rieltar fellow too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It's okay Liara. We'll handle it. The usual way." –Commander Shepard
> 
> Moruene doesn't appear in the game, but she's the second in command of the Flaming Fist, and according to the lore she, Eltan, and Scar are inseparable BFFs. It seemed like if Scar was killed (which *does* happen in the game, in slightly different circumstances) that she and Eltan would want to get revenge on the killers.
> 
> And an aside: Moruene is described as Eltan's 'Lifelong friend, continual comrade, and sometimes lover.' This struck me as such a blatantly Ed Greenwood thing; it seems like his world is populated by a huge number of swinging, aging bachelors and their lady-friends-with-benefits. I wrote them here as more of a straightforward couple.


	70. Gauntlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the Flaming Fist take action

_ "Beware a managed retreat. It means that you are being led into a trap."  _ -Cordell of the Golden Legion, _Conquests_

* * *

"I can feel thine eyes upon me, lascivious one."

"You think- Bah!" Edwin turned away in a huff. "I would hardly consider… (Oh. Of course. She is attempting to bait me!)" In defiance he looked again, glaring daggers into the back of the witch's head. "Of course I am watching you, and closely! Dangerous creature that you are."

Dynaheir had yet to turn from the great tome open before her, though she did sit up slightly, seemingly taken aback. " _I_ have presented no danger to thee. I knew not of thine very _existence_ until our encounter upon the Uldoon Trail. Yet even after _that,_ we attempted to ignore thee and go about our way, until thy foul lapdogs accosted my charge and I upon the Tradeway."

"Exactly," Edwin proclaimed, crossing his arms. "You were attacked and roughly handled by a force of gnolls, under the command of the local Thayvian enclave. Your bodyguard was left for dead and you were chained, starved, and left at the mercy of the brutes for days, until I arrived to secure what information I could from you and claim the bounty placed upon Hathran agents in the region." _(I was, in fact, under direct orders from Denak to kill you. But best not to mention that.)_

"Oh, and on top of that I sent your idiot bodyguard flying off a very tall cliff. (How he survived still puzzles me. Perhaps he landed on his head and there was simply nothing there to break.)" Edwin shot a glance over at the towering brute after he spoke. The broad, bald, and painted man had his arms crossed at his chest just like the red wizard, and if Edwin had been glaring daggers then broadswords were shooting from the berserker's eyes. He was, perhaps, one to watch even more closely than the witch. It had taken a great effort from Dynaheir to restrain her pet when they and Edwin had first encountered each other in the Candlekeep Courtyard some days before.

"Thus," Edwin concluded, "you have every possible –dare I say even reasonable– reason to turn me into a pile of smoldering ash. And _thus_ it behooves me to watch you very, very closely."

He thought that summed things up nicely, but Dynaheir was not perturbed. "Fortunate for thee that nothing burns in these halls save candlewax and lanterns," the witch rebutted, not lifting her nose from her book. "On grounds so hallowed, watched and warded as these are, I could make no move against thee, even were I to wish it. And stare or glare as much as thy like; the same rules apply to thee."

Edwin's frown became a full-bore scowl. What the witch said was true enough, at least in spirit. He _could_ technically throw fire spells around; it was simply the books that would not catch flame. But _any_ hostile action, especially here in the Great Library, would draw the warrior-monks and spellcasting scribes down on him like a swarm of locusts, and they had many wards specifically designed to deal with magical troublemakers. Here at her studies, locked away for days on end with the books and candles, the witch was completely secure.

Which was damned suspicious and convenient, as far as Edwin was concerned. The rules of the Keep specifically stated that the gift of a valuable tome bought outsiders a mere tenday of study within the library, but somehow this witch had cajoled her way into a far longer stay. When Edwin had subtly inquired among the more chatty scribes as to why, they had claimed that the witch was using her knowledge to help one of the Readers compile a great compendium of Rashemi lore, in addition to adding her considerable skills as a scholar and scrivener to assist around the keep. Clearly the rules here were not so 'very strict' as some of the huffy guardians would want visitors to believe.

And as she assisted the monks the witch seemed to be continuing studies of her own. Some of the gossips had also mentioned that she had talked with nearly everyone in the great citadel at some point or another, inquiring about all the residents of the Keep, from the First Reader on down to the grooms at the stable and the maids –and even former maids– at the local inn. Quite curious to Edwin's ears, as if the witch were carrying out some sort of investigation, though the foolish locals simply considered her to be _friendly._

_ Bah. What is she planning? _

Of course his top guess was that she and her trained ape had simply remained in the Citadel for safety. Namely from Thayvian wizards. He had expected to pick up her _trail_ when he had showed up on the doorstep of the library, costly (and as it turned out quite fascinating. He had almost been sad to part with _The History of the Nether Scrolls_ when the time came) book in hand. His plan had been to inquire as to where the witch and her buffoon had gone, follow, and find a way to correct the fail- _Ahem!-_ The _delay_ to Denak's plans that continued to hang over Edwin's head.

But here the witch was, and here she seemed to remain. It was the most unexpected and frustrating impasse.

"Rather than scowling at mine back," Dynaheir suggested, intruding upon his thoughts, "mayhap ye ought use thy time here for study? You've an interest in the lore of ancient Netheril, no? And in particular its lost, miraculously malleable scrolls?"

Edwin couldn't stop himself from recoiling slightly. She _still_ appeared to be buried in the book. Did the rodent whisper to her as well? How had she- _Oh, yes._ Likely she simply had some divination trained upon him; a wizard eye following his every move or some such. Doing something like that himself rather than constantly glaring at the witch would likely be prudent. Though… _hrm._ Edwin had few divination spells at his disposal. It was not a school of magic he had _completely_ neglected (a spell of _true sight_ could be crucial in a mage-duel), but hardly one of interest.

"I've a taste for all lore of true and _significant_ power. Though I would note that you seem to be absorbed by the vague and whimsical ramblings of some long-dead soothsayer instead." Her reading habits were as easy to notice as his: always something related to Alaundo's prophecies.

"Amusing," Dynaheir noted, and Edwin could indeed hear the (obnoxious) smirk in her voice. "Dost thou realize that our choices of study rise from a similar source?"

"I…" _He completely did not follow._ "Well of course. Alaundo's vague (and thus useless) prophesies and the ever-unraveling puzzle of the Nether Scrolls…" _Think! What is she getting at? Or is she playing you for a fool? But if you call her out on that and she does actually have a case to make you will look…Bah! Best to preempt this unraveling conversation right here and change the sub-_

"As thy well know, judging from thine choice of reading materials, those scrolls were the instruments that led to Netheril's great invocations and constructs, but the mere humans-"

"Ah! I see where you are going. Common knowledge that every schoolboy learns by rote in Thay. The basic –and in many ways most powerful– forms of the arcane were all the design of the most ancient of races: dragons and their serpentine kin the Sarrukh, namely. To us the scrolls appear miraculous; to them it was as simple as the written word."

"But hast thou sussed out the connection between that creator races and-"

A roll of the eyes, a wave of the hand, and a "Yes, yes, yes" interrupted her. Edwin still had no idea, of course, _and_ the witch seemed to be leaving a trail towards a certain conclusion that could have been a trap. But what good would stalling do him here and now?

"Alaundo's prophesies ring true throughout the ages" (they had, in fact, endured far better than any other sort of divination) "because they are built upon the firm bedrock of the Sarrukh's magic. Some master snake-diviner first saw all of these events flowing out from where he stood, and we dim mortals interpret those to this day."

With an echoing clap Dynaheir closed her book. "Exactly. Thou art smarter than thee appear."

_ Oh.  _ He had really just been guess- But perhaps this witch had new information to give? Best to play along.

"For mine own studies it is of course logical to look into the secret knowledge of the ancients," Dynaheir went on, "but for thine might I suggest that thee search for more contemporary accounts of the scrolls? If thou truly wishes to learn their proper use in a modern context, and perchance even their location, of course."

Edwin's eyes narrowed. "And why in Kossuth's name would one such as _you_ wish for _me_ to succeed in obtaining such power?"

Her response was an indifferent shrug. "Consider it an olive branch. I bare thee no ill will, and could even assist thee in thine studies, provided there is reciprocation. Alaundo's prophesies art the subject of a staggering number of the tomes here, this fortress having been built in his honor."

For once Edwin was at a bit of a loss for words. "You…you would…"

"I still say this _evil_ wizard deserves none of your mercy, friend Dynaheir," the great baboon boomed from his nearby corner, finally speaking up. "I care not for the way he casts his eyes upon you, and the best solution would be to turn those eyes around with a violent snap! Not to indulge the underserving!"

"In the wider world, perhaps," Dynaheir conceded with chilly calm. "But while we are cramped together in these halls, both people of the scholarly persuasion to begin with, why not seek common ends?"

A million retorts flashed through Edwin's mind, but he held them back. Perhaps he could learn something of this witch's mission, being close by. Even…gain her trust? Doubtful though. He HAD tried to kill her! Well, at the very least a little study together would annoy the hulking ape. And…"Some assistance could be useful with the tomes written in Roushoum. It is not a script I am completely fluent in." ( _Can't read a word of it in truth, but she need not know that._ )

"There is a simple divination to assist with that. _Decipher Script._ "

"Well yes. Of course."

"Thou dost not know it." It wasn't a question. Edwin's scowl deepened, but the witch stood and turned, surprising him with a smile and a hint of pearly teeth. "Then I shall teach thee."

* * *

Atop the tower of The Iron Throne stood the armored form of Sarevok Anchev, a foot braced upon the ledge right where the roof began to slope. Convenient that the black cast iron fence remained peeled back, having never been repaired. It made for a fine spot to lean through and look over the western quarter of the city.

Sarevok remembered the night that he had broken the fence well enough. The duel in the upper chamber of the tower. The trouble Shantrel, slight but quick, had given him. Until the fires of perdition had rolled up, of course, the rage taking hold and The Blade of Chaos snapped the little knight's sword like a twig. A chase to the rooftop had followed, and then Sarevok had held his 'brother's' light, armored form out over the abyss, squeezing at his neck until something broke, then casually dropping the dying man into the awaiting darkness.

Armor had been found the next day on the street, but no body, and Sarevok knew why. He had seen it all in his mind's eye as his brother died and became glittering dust, drawn to Gehenna. Drawn to the caldron their father had built for his scores of children; the crucible from which Bhaal's divine power would be reforged.

Annoying that, even after all his time studying the Bhaalspawn prophesies, it was still unclear to Sarevok _what_ was being forged down there. Many interpreted it as a scheme by the Lord of Murder to reform himself after his own destruction. Others claimed that, realizing from the prophesy that he was in fact 'mortal,' Bhaal had simply sought –as mortal men are wont to do– to sire a worthy heir. And it was easy enough to imagine how the selection process to replace the Lord of Murder would go: brothers and sisters slaying each other until the most deadly Child remained.

Impossible to know the motivations and thinking of a god, in any case. Shaking off the urge to _ponder_ (as his adoptive father was so prone to do: cautious planning and far too little action. A good thing Rieltar was not here), Sarevok instead turned his head and took a breath. They would be coming from the north, likely down Glowing Eel Way.

And his sister would be among them. What a strange turn: yet another of Sarevok's siblings would enter the tower soon, and hopefully she would meet the same end as Shantrel, though she was not even the primary target today.

Semaj stood nearby, his scrying mirror held up between his hands, and once again Angelo's face swam into view. When the Flaming Fist commander spoke his voice was low and tense. "We're setting off any moment now," he hissed. "A force of twenty-six men, five of them elite, along with the duke and his personal archmage."

Sarevok inclined his head in the slightest of nods. "And the freelancers?"

"Greatly diminished since the Cloakwood. Don't think they're much of a threat. There's the two idiot girls, some elf mage, a boy who looks like the definition of 'green recruit,' and some woman in heavy veils. From the south, maybe…"

"She's a drow. Far more dangerous than she looks. They all are." A chuckle. "Well, except for the boy." _Bards. Bah._

"Need to go," Angelo hissed abruptly, and with that the light in the mirror faded. He had sounded nervous; on the verge of panic really. Odd to see, as Sarevok had always thought the old warmage unshakable, at least in battle.

And right now all Sarevok could feel was elated. Giddy even. There had been enough meticulous planning and slinking in the shadows, and now it was time to see where the blades fell. To test his mettle against an archmage once again; to test the power of his Gift and strike the woman's head from her body or fall trying. To see who could think and act the quickest in the chaos.

Behind him there was already a bit of a crowd on the rooftop, but with each passing moment more and more followers and hirelings gathered. The four cultists from Calimshan stood in a calm little circle, their white desert cloaks bundled about them to hold back the chilly winds that rolled in off the bay. Nearby, Zhalimar Cloudwulfe towered above them all, silver plated arms crossed against his sturdy breastplate, his half-orc partner kneeling to polish his sword. Closer to Sarevok stood Tamoko and Semaj, both near the ledge and peering out at the city, and Cythandria leaned against a fence, studying her nails and feigning boredom to hide her nerves.

The latest arrival to step upon the roof had just passed through the doorway: a man dressed in a thin, form-fitting black wool body-stocking beneath strategically placed plates. Slight of build but all muscle, his eyes twinkled with self-amusement and his sharp, lean face was adorned with thick black stubble, his mid-length black hair combed back and displaying a widow's peak. The very picture of a rake, to Sarevok's eyes, and no doubt it was a carefully cultivated image.

As the man strutted forward Semaj shifted a bit closer to Sarevok, pitching his voice as low as he could. "The woman accompanies him. Invisible."

"Of course she does," Sarevok muttered. Good to know.

"You finally called," the man in black –Slythe– observed.

Turning his armored bulk away from the overlook, Sarevok nodded. "Yes. A grand duke approaches this tower. In a hurry. Rash and furious."

"Which one?"

"Eltan. He'll be leading a small force of soldiers. Use the poison, but do not kill him outright."

"Aww," a disembodied female voice pouted. "I think you might have misunderstood the point of hiring assassins."

Sarevok opened his mouth but then thought better of it. With the exception of this pair of hired killers those gathered here were completely loyal; either his longtime companions or fanatical Bhaalite cultists. But capture could easily change that. Best not to speak of the entire plan in front of so many: of how he needed the other dukes for the moment, and couldn't risk making them too wary. The full trap had to be in place before it could spring.

"The poison," he repeated. "The one useful thing that bumbling fool Marek came up with. Eltan needs to be incapacitated. For now. Of course everyone else is a fair target."

* * *

By the fourth bell of the afternoon the small army was shouldering its way through the city streets, more an entourage hurrying to keep at Eltan and Moruene's heels than an organized force. Most of the soldiers trailing the pair were regulars dressed in white tabards over chainmail, armed with sturdy guardsman's spears and shields, though a few carried bows. Others wore the bandedmail of elite Fist troops, and there were three dressed in full plate keeping steady pace beside the leaders, acting like bodyguards, along with an armored priest of Helm who stuck close to the grand duke.

There was also Commander Dosan of course, along with a younger man dressed in a similar uniform who was likely a spellcaster as well, and mixed in with the lines of soldiers came Ashura and Imoen's little mismatched group. "We really ought to come up with a name for our mercenary band," Imoen whispered as they trudged along. "So we can tell Eltan, when it's over, that: 'Payment is due to _The Order of the Pink Archer._ ' Mebee?" That last word came out a bit like a plea for a Deadwinter Day gift.

"We're definitely not going with ' _The Order of…_ ' anything," Ashura muttered back. "Sounds way too pretentious."

"Well, then come up with a name yerself!"

Pedestrians and drovers parted or stumbled aside to make room for the force, and a mule let out an irritated bray as its cart was violently shoved out of the way, the owner backing up and shouting apologies that were ignored by the armored duke. The street soon cleared completely beyond that; a good thing as Ashura figured it. It looked like Eltan was about ready to cut down anyone who got in his way, if Moruene didn't disintegrate them first.

They turned a corner and the smell of dead fish that hung over the Chionthar and the harbor rolled in with the stiff autumn winds, the great square tower that was their destination rising above the wharfs and warehouses. It was a building Ashura had noticed countless times while strolling through the city, tall and broad, with cathedral windows overlooking the bay and a crown of sharp ironwork at its peak. An impressive fortress, but she had never bothered to ask who owned it.

_ The tower of The Iron Throne.  _ Perhaps they should have tried to infiltrate the place the day they entered the city, little evidence as they had had at the time. The way things had worked out seemed preferable though: it was nice to be marching safely behind one of the city's rulers and a platoon of his best soldiers. Tall and sturdy-looking in his gleaming, runemarked silver armor and plumed helm, the grand duke made for an impressive meatshield, and the woman beside him practically crackled with power and confidence.

Like the duke, Moruene appeared to be perhaps in her mid to late fifties, her round face lined and weathered and her hair a sandy grey, tied up at the moment in bun. She marched forward in fine black riding boots, woolen hose tucked into them beneath her unadorned but sturdy black dress, belted with steel where a few neatly arranged pouches and wands hung.

Grand Duke Eltan himself had a commanding look to him, as one would expect; a square, cleanly shaved jaw, close-cropped brown hair that was just starting to gray, and small, sharp eyes. And currently those eyes were glaring at the double doors of polished oak that served as the tower's main entrance. The grand duke stomped right up to them, stopping for the first time on the afternoon march to hammer his mailed fist against the wood. "Open up!" Eltan bellowed. "In the name of the Flaming Fist and the Council of Four!"

No response, and Eltan gave the door another impatient bash. The adjacent door creaked open a breath later, ever so slightly, and the head of a nervous man peaked out. His eyes were wide with shock, face dusted with black beard-growth and hair slicked back, and he looked to be wearing some sort of bulky gambeson.

"Ye…yes?" the door guard stammered. "How can I help you?"

Grabbing the hapless man by the front of his coat, Eltan shoved his way through the doors, flinging them open and pushing the guard along. "Where is Rieltar Anchev?!"

"Oh…th…the…"

"Where?!"

"The upper floor!" the guard squeaked, finally finding his voice. "I'll take you to him immediately, sir."

Eltan let go, though he stomped forward before the guard could even start to lead the way. "Do."

The guardsman scurried to get in beside and then past the grand duke, and the rest of the entourage filed into the great foyer of the Iron Throne tower, mail clinking as they went.

After seeing some of the city's grand estates, guild houses, and expensive inns, Ashura had thought that she knew opulent, but this place looked to top them all. Polished greenstone marble ran the length of the great chamber that must have taken up most of the tower's first floor, polished pillars of the same stuff buttressing elegant arches and breaking up the openness. The broad stairways that gently curved up to the next story were made of the same veined, seagreen stone, the vaulted ceiling high above a contrast in slate grey. Hanging blue glass glowlamps cast diffuse light across the foyer, mixed with the flickering wicks of bronze candelabras and the diffuse sunlight that filtered through the countless high, arched windows.

Many of the pillars and arches were adorned with the stylized symbol of the Iron Throne, stamped especially large across the entire central floor. And everywhere, ringing the lower spaces and the upper balconies, stood marble statues, holding dignified poses and underlit by braziers. Countless figures were depicted, dressed in finery or elaborate armor, though at first glance they did not seem to portray any gods or heroes that Ashura was familiar with.

_ Although…  _ Yes. That cloaked statue up ahead actually was familiar: Wise Alaundo, clutching a book to his chest. What an odd decoration to find _here_ of all places.

Bootfalls echoed as they all swept in and forward, the soldiers lining up in two rows of bobbing spears just behind their leaders. Then, as Eltan and his partner set foot on the great throne-like glyph etched in the floor, the grand duke halted, shoulders rising and squaring as he straightened and glanced around. His gauntleted hand shot up in a gesture of caution and the soldiers formed up behind, spears all sweeping down in unison as their bodies shifted.

"Bows on those balconies," Eltan commanded. "This is-"

Then his order became a sharp gasp, the Iron Throne guard he had been dragging along suddenly right up against the duke, a short blade in hand that just seemed to have appeared from nowhere and found its way under Eltan's armpit all at once. At the same instant a black cloud bloomed into being right where the guard and the grand duke stood, expanding with a smoky whisper and enveloping everything.

Ashura crouched down, blinking in the darkness, completely blind for a heartbeat or so. Then her infravision kicked in and vague, red silhouettes floated into view. Next to her Xan was intoning something, Garrick was humming in a low voice, and someone howled in pain. Then with a _woosh_ the darkness evaporated.

Moruene was standing tall, an arm waving as if she were conducting something, and Eltan had dropped to his knees beside her, clutching his side as the warpriest rushed in to help. The gambeson the Iron Throne guard had been wearing was shed upon the floor, a door at the far side of the chamber had been flung open, and a glimpse of black hair and gleaming blade could be seen slipping through that doorway. In an explosive blur of motion Moruene took off after the man, obviously sped up by some sort of magic, and Commander Dosan and one of the guards in platemail broke off to follow her.

The soldiers seemed to have tightened ranks, shoulders pressed together in a sloppy phalanx, and there were a few laying prone, black fletching protruding from chainmail. Arrows. _Oh shit-_

Up on the balconies above the great chamber men and women in reinforced leathers were leaning over the railing, bows in hand as a second volley was aimed. Among them was a towering figure in gleaming plate, armed with a longbow, his foot braced against the banister and ringlets of golden hair spilling out from under his helm. He drew, aimed and loosed, the others following his lead and shooting a fraction of a beat later.

In a blink and a flash of violet a protective shield lit up around Xan, arrows rebounding off as Imoen and Garrick wisely slipping in behind the Greycloak. Squatting as best she could behind shields and armored soldiers, Ashura trusted in her enchanted boots instead. No premonitions came, so she kept still as the arrows whizzed by or clattering against broadshields.

But then the man in platemail knocked yet _another_ arrow, quick as a cat, and Ashura finally felt the familiar prickle of someone's aim upon her. She dove to the side in the same instant that he loosed, a _ping_ ringing right in her ear as the broadhead scraped across her armored shoulder.

Rolling on the floor had moved her towards the edge of their piss-poor phalanx, and on a whim Ashura kept going, rushing for the nearest alcove and calling "With me!" over her shoulder. Hopefully her friends would follow. They were sitting targets if they stayed out there in the chamb-

_ Another  _ intuitive prickle, this time from the front. Three archers were leaning over the railing she was about to pass under, one taking aim and pulling back the bowstring.

Ashura tried to dip and twist out of the arrow's path, but at the same time a great cloud of inky blackness hissed into existence up on the balcony and blotted out the archers. Panicked shouts erupted from the darkness rather than arrows, nearly drowning out a sizzling rumble that sounded somewhere behind Ashura, and then she was between a pair of statues, nearly under the awning and-

The sizzling sound became a roaring explosion, then a blast of hot wind struck Ashura's cloak and sent it billowing ahead of her as she instinctively hunched. There had been a flash of white-hot light, but it was already fading down to the orange and red of a curling wall of flames, tinged with streaks of smoke and rolling up from the marble floor.

As Ashura turned around to get a better look several people slipped in beside her or shouldered past. Flutters of familiar clothing and hair: Imoen. Garrick. Viconia. Her friends had followed her, and the explosion of flame had been centered on the main force.

_ Ack! Xan!  _ She peered past Garrick's shoulder. Flames and smoke obscured most things where the fireball had struck, and some of those flames were clinging to blackened bodies. There was a glow within the smoke though; blue-tinged and quivering like quicksilver and roughly…spherical? Some sort of protection spell, she realized a beat later, enveloping the Flaming Fist warmage and those nearby: Eltan, the priest, and several of the troops.

There were other soldiers huddling behind blackened shields, and there among them was a separate glow: the violet of Xan's arrowshield spell, eclipsed by the gasfire-blue of the elf's moonblade, which seemed to be burning brighter than usual. There didn't seem to be a smudge of soot on Xan's pristine robes either. _Good._

The stairway to the next floor was right in front of them, beneath the awning, and as Ashura turned towards it she caught a glimpse of Viconia's hard eyes and swift nod. The guards caught in the drow's _darkness_ spell could already be stumbling out. Regrouping.

No time to hesitate. Ashura sprinted for the stairway, trusting the others to follow.

* * *

A discarded potion bottle shattered on the cellar steps and then Slythe was a blur, leaping a barrel and dashing through the dimly lit chamber fast as Sarevok's eyes could follow. A good thing too: the archmage on his heels streaked into the room a few breaths later, a nimbus of clashing colors swirling around her and feet tapping with the obvious cadence of a spell of _haste._

Moruene's rush brought her right across Winski's carefully laid runes near the bottom of the steps, of course, and they flashed and burst in twin explosions, one of the glyphs sending up glittering spikes of ice right where the witch was stepping, and the other expanding outward in a net of ghostly webbing. Ice and sticky protoplasm both met the same fate: where they brushed up against the archmage flares of blue-white fire instantly turned them into hissing steam and melting gunk, not even seeming to slow her.

Hells, perhaps she didn't even notice. Her focus was on Slythe alone, and she just had to catch a glimpse of the assassin as he dove for the far side of the basement in order to weave her hands before her in a whirlwind and give form to her obvious fury, unleashed in a storm of arcane bolts.

Sarevok recognized the spell well enough. Potentially devastating, but as the globes of crackling energy arched and flew, seeking Slythe out, the air at the midpoint of the basement shimmered and seemed to solidify, and each bolt burst –one after the other– in a shower of useless sparks when they struck the _wall of force_. Semaj's doing: he had just finished his low chant, crouching and still invisible behind a stack of kegs.

Reaching the far wall and safe behind the sudden shield, Slythe turned and actually shot Moruene a grin. He had sheathed his blade –either out of bravado or because he knew how useless it was now– and raised an empty hand, cupping it slightly as if he were placing it upon something unseen.

Moruene wasted no time with the new obstacle, a finger shooting out before her and a quick spell rolling off her tongue. A green glow gathered and then streaked from her fingertip, and when the ray struck the shimmering barrier it burned away everything it touched, a scorched spot appearing in the _wall of force_ and then expanding until the entire thing was gone.

Mages. Sarevok smirked slightly, not yet noticed –though hardly hiding– as he stood beside a pile of rice bags. Mages are trained and conditioned to think calmly and methodically, especially the best of them. Every element has an opposite, every spell a counterspell, every problem a solution. Rocks smash swords, swords slash papers, papers envelope rocks, and a _disintegration_ spell destroys a _wall of force_.

There was a glow now, right beside Slythe were his hand was hanging in the air, and as Moruene stretched her fingers to prepare a volley of magic that was no doubt powerful enough to blast Slythe into burning shreds the glow expanded and took the form of a woman standing beside the assassin, a burning piece of parchment crumbling between her fingers. There was a mirage-like shimmer that ran over the woman and her husband, then with the pronounced _whoosh_ of a vacuum suddenly being filled they both vanished.

Two Flaming Fists had rushed in to follow Moruene into the cellar: a man in heavy plate who looked to be some sort of elite guard and Commander Angelo Dosan ( _Ha!_ ), aglow with protective spells of his own. As the Fists rushed towards their leader's side the door to the basement slammed shut and Sarevok hefted The Blade of Chaos, resting it against his armored shoulder as he stretched to his full height. The others who had taken their positions throughout the basement readied themselves as well: Alai the Calishite cultist clinging to the ceiling thanks to a climbing spell and aiming one of his wands, Winksi shifting out of the form of a dusty statue in the corner, Semaj beginning to intone another spell from his hiding spot, and Tomako waited in silence, lurking somewhere under the protection of a spell of _sanctuary._

The trap was sprung now, though Moruene hardly looked surprised or flustered. She just shifted her glare about the room as she began to chant yet another spell.

* * *

All was black save the faint, radiant shapes of three figures, each holding objects in their hands and each backing up cautiously, heads swiveling. Eyes adjusting, Ashura found that there were other little textures to the darkness; bluish shapes over the ambient black that hinted at the angular forms of statues and the arches of the marble banister. The only certainty in Viconia's conjured darkness, however, were the beacons of body heat. Infravision was nearly useless beyond detecting those.

That was all Ashura needed at the moment though. She had plunged into the cloud seeking the archers who had been lining up along the banister. She was here as a hunter.

Three paces and she was within striking distance of the closest red-orange blob: a woman maybe, judging by the tone of the archer's voice as she gasped and pivoted towards Ashura, holding out her bow and trying to club at the darkness with it. A wide slash of Varscona and that bow clattered to the floor, the archer's hands instinctively clutching at the front of her bleeding neck. From there she flopped back against the railing and then pitched over, plummeting head first.

The next guard had dropped his (again, judging by the tone of the grunts he made as he moved it seemed to be a man) bow and held his arm out in the position of a swordsman, though the sword itself was hard to make out. He moved forward cautiously as he hunted for Ashura, almost facing her but not quite. She swept in before he could pivot towards her and then the man was bending forward from a slash to his gut as they passed. Before he could recover Ashura's second blade ran him through from behind.

As she turned to face the third archer the glowing silhouette simply dropped to the floor, pawing at its chest. Turning around, Ashura saw a new red-orange form, apparently aiming a bow that she guessed had taken down the last guard. _Imoen?_ Damn! It was impossible to tell friend from foe in here!

"Shura?" the figure hissed in a familiar voice. Apparently Imoen had had the same idea.

"Yeah, it's me." She started marching towards the figure, and hopefully towards the edge of the conjured darkness as well, but she grunted in annoyance when she almost slammed headfirst into a statue.

It took a little easing forward and some cautious steps, then all at once the blinding light of glowlamps and gleaming marble struck Ashura's eyes, along with the sight of her other friends. They had taken cover behind pillars and statues, and Ashura and Imoen rushed to do the same, blinking back stars.

A few arrows lay strewn across the floor, but the enemy archers were backing around the corner, scrambling away from a great jagged monstrosity that stalked after them along the carpet; its insectoid body formed entirely from jagged plates of black volcanic glass, with claws like great serrated scythes held high and ready to come swinging down at the terrified guards. It was an eight foot long mantis conjured from the lower planes; likely Viconia's doing.

_ Good.  _ Ashura stepped back onto the carpet and started forward, waving for her companions to follow and grinning as an arrow bounced uselessly off the mantis's carapace and the last visible guard turned tail and ran. The creature rounded the bend and pounced at something, and Ashura raced to follow; to scatter the enemy before they could regroup.

Around the pillar she went and onto the next stretch of balcony, minding to keep behind the mantis. The creature's claws had slashed down, but now they were caught on the great oak shield of a man in dull grey plate armor –a half-orc judging by the glimpse of his face that Ashura could see through the gap in his helm.

The half-orc shoved with his shield, Ashura took another step forward, and then her vision filled with blazing white light as searing heat blasted her cheek, forcing her to turn away. A roar like a furnace erupted all around her, and then came the pain: every nerve on fire and screaming.

She stumbled and then fell backwards, barely registering the marble when she struck it, rolling on the floor. There was a blazing pillar of fire right in front of her now, and tongues of flame had followed her out of it, smoke searing her lungs, the glow and crackle right in her face.

Her raincloak, she realized. It was on fire! Snatching at the thing with stinging fingers, she fumbled to pull the strings loose. A brief struggle and then she managed to toss the burning cloak, slipping onto her back and elbows to crawl away from the blazing light of the pillar of fire.

Then, with a sudden and unceremonious guttering sound, the flames simply vanished, replaced by a looming shadow that came rushing for her. Platmail armor. Porcine nose. Longsword raised high, a splintered shield on his other arm, and the half-orc seemed to be covered in black ichor. The conjured mantis was nowhere in sight.

Another shadow flashed by and collided with Ashura from the side, and then they were rolling across the marble. She tensed; started to struggle, but then a breath against her ear and a familiar voice made her limbs slacken.

"Oof!" Imoen exclaimed, and they kept on rolling across the floor. Not too different from when they were on the grass outside the stables so many years ago; their favorite place to play Red Dragon's Maze. 'There's no lava flowing now!' Imoen would shriek. 'We gotta go fast!' And then they would tumble.

They hit the edge of a statue's base ( _Oww!_ ), and Imoen half-grumbled and half-squeaked: "Yer real heavy!"

Steel boots stamped by, through the space where they had rolled, and Ashura craned her head up in time to see a mail-clad form passing. Duke Eltan, she realized with a blink, and he was about to collide with the half-orc. The grand duke's boot shot upwards, throwing soot into the air from the spot where the pillar of fire had just struck, and caught the edge of the half-orc's shield, flipping it back at an angle that seemed to twist the connected arm painfully.

The half-orc hardly had time to wince from that before Eltan pushed close to him with a flash of steel, and then he was bending forward, coughing up blood between his tusks and through the gap in his helm. A side-bar from the duke's mailed arm sent the burly fellow clattering to the floor, and Eltan just marched right over, rows of Fist soldiers hustling to keep up with him and hold up their screen of shields.

Ashura shot to her feet to follow the warparty and instantly regretted the sudden motion, every pore of burnt skin screaming as she involuntarily bent forward. There was a sudden, steadying presence beside her, a gentle hum on Garrick's lips as his fingers carefully bracing her shoulder. Spikes of pain ran through her, but she winced and nodded gratefully, and soon the bard's song was soothing some of the superficial burns away. Garrick's gentle magic was nothing compared to the healing of a full priest or an alchemical potion, but it was enough to help her get moving.

And Eltan and the others had moved quite a bit ahead already. The tower's defenders were giving ground. Happy to, it even seemed, since they were backing towards a stairway that was an obvious chokepoint. Probably had all sorts of nasty surprises ready up there.

Among the archers who were pelting Eltan's little phalanx with arrows stood a woman with long blonde hair, wearing a green dress and glowing with obvious arcane protections. Her hands were carefully threading through the air, drawing runes it seemed, and a heartbeat later their purpose became clear when a circle of flames flared into being between the pressing Fists and the retreating archers.

The conjuress immediately turned and fled up the stairs as a great, hulking form leapt out of the circle she had created, springing as if from the marble floor in a burst of hellish light and coiling smoke. It landed a few paces away: an ape-like thing, squat and broad, with talon-like toes and oversized fingers that flexed as if eager to crush skulls between them. Rust-red fur framed the beast's orangutan-face and ran down its arms and legs, though most of the creature's thickly muscled form had the hue and gleam of basalt –as if it were chiseled from blackened stone– and its sharpened teeth and tusks were a contrast of ivory-white.

Tiny eyes glowed a hellfire-orange in the recess of the creature's skull, and as it let out a deafening howl the furnace-glow flickered deep within its throat as well. That howl seemed to carry through the room with a physical force, pushing at the soldiers lined up on the balcony and making them shift and stumble back, and as the sound rolled through Ashura she couldn't suppress a shiver of primal fear.

This was far more than an ape. This was a demon. A Bar-lgura.

Slamming its fists into the floor, the demon surged forward, springing towards the nearest foe: the grand duke himself. An arm that was thicker than Ashura's torso led the way, great paws spreading to grab Eltan by the shoulder; to crush bone and rip limbs from their sockets.

With speed that matched the demon's and a casual grace it did not possess, Eltan simply pivoted to the side and took a backwards step, his sword a blur in front of him. There was a spray of black blood as the blade bit into the demon's extending arm, then a clang of steel as the ape collided with the grand duke, who bent low, his armored shoulder catching the creature. The demon bucked and then flew over Eltan's head, carried by its own momentum, and with a meaty _thunk_ it struck the marble flat on its back and skidded along a pace, one arm nearly severed and dark blood erupting from a hole that been gouged in its chest.

Eltan sheathed a dagger with his offhand as the creature settled, then turned fully towards the stairway. "Finish that thing," he ordered without a glance back, marching towards the stairs, and several of the Fist soldiers shook themselves and rushed in to do just that, jabbing at the demon with their spears as it wriggled on the floor. They barely seemed able to pierce the demon's hide, but one of Imoen's enchanted arrows finished it off, the creature's body losing cohesion and becoming a churning black mist that dissipated into nothing.

And then they were all rushing for the stairs and once again struggling to keep up with Eltan. "Tymora's tits and Beshaba's breath," Ashura mumbled as she hurried along too. _Flattens a demon just like that. Glad he's on our side._


	71. Dragoness and Deathbringer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Sarevok attempts to do his thing

_ "There will always be enemies who you cannot  _ directly _strike with your magic. Think about your possible surroundings in battle and plan your spells accordingly."_ – Laspeera Inthre, _Mageduels: A Manual_

* * *

Carried by a mighty roar, the full twist of his body, and the fury of Perdition itself, Sarevok's sword whistled through the air. The Blade of Chaos was broad and heavy –even for a greatsword– honed to a razor's edge and aglow with infernal script that coiled along its flat and fuller. Forged and blessed by acolytes of the Lord of Murder to be wielded by a Deathbringer and a Deathbringer alone, it was the perfect weapon in his hands, the burning glyphs leaving a trail of hellfire as the blade struck the archwizardess' shoulder.

There was an answering flash of light, the barrier around Moruene outlining her in a brief blue nimbus, and with a jolt that that ran through Sarevok's wrist and forearm the blade was simply _repelled_.

The archmage stumbled back a step, but through force of will she managed to keep the white mists that had been gathering at her fingertips from winking out, and with snarled out words and a lurch she sent them rolling forward. Mists became curling clouds, gathering density and form as they streaked by until they were a pair of smoky wraiths that _shot_ past Sarevok.

He did not turn to watch, eyes on Moruene alone as he hefted his blade once again and drew a deep breath, tasting smoke and ash and the acrid smell of sizzling acid. The fabric of the woman's black, long-sleeved dress had parted ever-so-slightly between shoulder and neck; a little rip that revealed the faintest trickle of blood. She didn't seem to notice though, a look of absolute concentration on her face as her hands wove yet another spell.

She _could_ be hurt, it seemed, despite the protective mantle that hung about her, but it had taken every ounce of skill and muscle on Sarevok's part to do it. Until the invulnerability spell wore off his best efforts would yield nothing but feeble scratches. Despite that he did not hesitate to roar again and bring his blade down, a diagonal slash from the opposite direction.

Invulnerability or no, he had to keep attacking. Stomping. Pushing. For if he slowed, then the furnace that gave his arms and armor their power would begin to flicker and go out. The Deathbringer could not fight defensively. Could not hesitate.

No matter. He had strength to spare, and would not be running out of breath anytime soon.

His lips even quirked as he struck a second time, blade rebounding off Moruene's arm and leaving another comically minimal tear. She was glaring at him with frustration and hate, for though he could not stop her chanting or truly wound her, she had not been able to scratch him either. Tendrils of smoke still climbed from the joints of Sarevok's armor; the remnants of a fire spell that she had blasted him with a moment ago, the last of a long series of useless evocations thrown his way.

He had barely felt the heat.

Sarevok's grin grew wider as he lifted his sword and brought it down _again_. How frustrating it must be for _her._ The evoker, who had probably torn armies apart with storms of magic, watching as some horned knight shrugged her spells aside with the power of his armor and his Gift. Her mantle would soon fade and her spells would be spent. His strength would not.

All around them the cellar was a smoldering ruin; crates and supplies and support beams shattered to splinters and the stone floor pitted and scorched, pools of blood-red wine spreading and bubbling in the heat where one of the great kegs had been destroyed. There were gouges and scorch-marks across every wall as well –and even the ceiling– the stones cracked and blistered from blasts of lightning, balls of fire, acidic bolts, and thunderous bursts of sound.

Alai the Cultist was now a blackened skeletal shell, face and fingers and protruding ribs all pointing at the ceiling. The armored Fist soldier was dead as well, breastplate staved in by a murder-blow from the hilt of Sarevok's sword and gorget sliced open from a mighty chop. Commander Dosan stood in relative safety nearby, surrounded by a globe that deflected magic when it came his way. His bow was drawn, and from time to time he would send an arrow flying, though for some reason they had yet to hit a target. _Ha!_

A cry of pain sounded somewhere nearby as Semaj was lifted off his feet, one of Moruene's conjured mists curled around him and floating up as chains of energy danced around them both. There was a counter-flash –one of his protective tattoos activating– and as he fell and rolled away an even brighter flash followed: a blast of sunlight from Tamoko's outstretched fingers that burned the wraith away.

At the same time Sarevok swung again, hounding the archmage and her alone, but the force was nothing close enough to interrupt her next spell. Her palms swung downward, aimed at the floor before her and sending a tremble of light down to the stones. That tremble seemed to rapidly spread out beneath Sarevok's feet, and as it did he tried to sidestep. To leap.

Too late. He seemed to drop a few inches, instantly, the motion accompanied by a gurgle and a squelch. Lifting his feet was suddenly a challenge, boots slipping deeper and deeper into the now-liquefied floor.

His thrashing sent flecks of mud flying, but he just sunk faster still. Calf-deep, then the mud was around his knees –then thighs. He felt his boots break through and slide out into open air beneath, and then the weight of his heavy armor pulled him down completely into the morass, arm and sword uselessly probing for something solid to cling at or cleave into. They found nothing.

A wet squelch and he was enveloped by semi-solid darkness. Then his weight broke through the bottom and he was plunging through open air, cursing that clever witch all the way down.

It was a very short fall, broken by a painful smack and splash into cold water. He sank like a stone, dragged down by his armor, but a furious wriggle brought him to the surface and he sat and then stood with a sputter. The foul-smelling water came up just above his knees.

A sewer tunnel. Thanks to relentless autumn rains the water was at least flowing and not as nasty as it could have been. Of course the rains had also made the channel wide, deep, and bone-chillingly cold.

Looking up, Sarevok spied the great, soft wound in the cellar floor through which he had fallen. He stepped back to avoid the great globs of mud that were dripping down to follow him into the water, a pinprick of bright light growing at the center of the liquefied stone as more and more of the stuff fell.

_ Argh!  _ That clever, clever witch!

She could not blast him, so she had taken him off the battlefield another way, rock transmuted to mud beneath his feet. And what now? A trudge through the sewers and the indignity of a climb to the city streets above? The Fires would long be out by then. The Gift that had protected him from her spells. _By all the-_

Suddenly the ceiling shook and the sound of stone striking stone reverberated through the tunnel. More of the muddy wound fell away and there were flashes of fire through the hole; starbursts and explosions. The whole ceiling was buckling beneath whatever was raining down on it now, cracks spider-webbing out from the weak spot that the transmuted hole had created. Sarevok got a glimpse of what was doing the damage when something bright came plummeting through: a ball of molten rock that struck the canal in front of him and sent up a pillar of hissing steam.

More and more impacts followed, the ceiling bowing under the bombardment, and Sarevok found himself grinning as he saw the first piece of stone flake off and fall into the sewer. A second meteor came crashing through to strike the water below, this time piercing solid stone instead of just slicing past mud, and all around that new hole cracks expanded with a great grinding noise.

Next a massive piece of the ceiling broke off and fell, then another, and then all at once –as Sarevok raised a forearm to shield his face from the debris– the entire thing shattered and came raining down around him.

_ Good! Good!  _ His grin just grew and he hefted his sword, not shrinking back as smoking stones bounced off his armor and waves buffeted him from all sides. _Let's bring it all down!_

* * *

The floor buckled, the walls shook, and a great rumble ran through the tower, rattling Ashura's teeth and sending her teetering. She fought to stay upright, boots doing a ludicrous dance on the carpet; trying at the same time to keep her longsword between her and her opponent's nimble little warhammer.

The man with the hammer had been thrown from side to side by the quake as well, but he chanced a swing, missing by a decent span. He let out a bitter laugh as another tremor knocked him back a step, nearly stumbling into a shower of falling books.

Walls trembled, a bookcase toppled, and then the floor seemed to settle. Wasting no time, Ashura bent forward in a lunging slash, but the man spun away and danced from her perusing sword.

Another laugh from the bastard, and this one sounded genuinely cocky. He knocked Ashura's next slash aside with the bronze buckler strapped to his wrist. _Ting!_ "Ha! The little Deathbringer fights me herself! Have I told you what an honor it is?"

He had. He'd been prattling on all through their little scuffle, from the moment he'd blindsided her with that hammer of his and sent her stumbling through the doorway into this– library? It looked like a library. Where the blow had caught her there was a stabbing pain in her side, worse each time she made a sudden move. Didn't feel like anything was broke, at least.

The man's Chondathan was a bit stilted and thick with the accent of the Shining South, and beneath the white hood of his desert cloak his skin was the chocolate tone of someone with ancestors from Turmish, or perhaps Chult. His face was craggy and weathered; looked to be perhaps in his fifities, but _damn_ was he spry. Longwinded too. "Such an honor! To play a part in your father's Great Game. You know of it? Yes?"

Ashura just snarled and sent out a trail of frost as Varscona rang against the man's buckler once again. His hammer whistled down and sought her foot, but she danced back, and in retaliation her shorter sword stabbed at his extended wrist. The old snake managed to coil back and the blade just whistled through air.

Enlightenment would be nice, perhaps, but not worth a hammer to the face. Not a time for conversation.

And the man was talking enough for the both of them. "You do not know, do you?" he went on. "You stumble through in ignorance, yet leave a trail of blood your father might be proud of. If your brother did not eclipse you so! Ha!"

Steel rang, the cloaked man anticipating each motion of Ashura's blades. The shaft and spike of his slender hammer caught a surprise strike from her shortsword, nearly wrenching it from her hand. "It would be an honor even," he continued, not yet winded and voice full of zeal, "to die at your ignorant hands, little Deathbringer!" He ducked low beneath a wide slash of her longsword, almost making it look like a bow, and at the same time a shadow rose behind him.

"Far more of an honor, however, to end your part in the Game myself!" The shadow matched each nimble turn of the man's body, slipping past an overturned table. "To send you back to the very forge of- _Hhhrk!_ "

Hands that burned a hellish red pushed the man's hood aside and cut him off, clenching around his throat. Shock and pain registered instantly in his eyes, and he tried to slam an elbow back against the figure behind him –several times– but she twisted like his own shadow, always out of reach.

Soon the man's knees buckled beneath him, eyes bulging and tongue lolling as the same crimson light that lit his assailant's fingers seemed to well up in the back of his throat and at the edges of his eyes. Wisps of smoke followed, the man's limbs contorted, and once that was done Viconia sent him toppling forward, honor denied.

Ashura gave the drow a grateful nod and turned towards the library's doorway. The sound of clashing steel and scuffing boots still rang from the room beyond, though the melee seemed to be moving farther and farther away.

They entered what appeared to be a lounge, a marble staircase at the far end leading to yet a higher story, and Ashura and Viconia arrived just in time to glimpse the backs the last of the Flaming Fist as they ascended the stairs, along with Garrick. The bard had his harp in hand, plucking out fast and high-pitched notes as he tried to sing over the sounds of stomping feet, shouting soldiers and clinking armor.

A peculiar thing, Ashura had always thought, to use your hands to play music when you could be shooting crossbow bolts instead. Still, her chest seemed to swell and her sore shoulders lifted a little at the sound of the fast-paced strumming; whatever magic Garrick wove into his song giving her a fresh burst of vigor. It _had_ been a long, hard-fought climb; up over the landings, through the cavernous dining hall, and now here.

The long mahogany bar that dominated the lounge was pitted and scarred from the recent battle, and nearly every cushioned chair and polished table was overturned, many smashed to splinters. Behind the bar the casks were shattered, ale and wine trickling to the floor, and there were cracks snaking up the marble walls. Impossible to tell how much damage had been done by the building's quaking and how much by the battle.

Rows upon rows of tables had been used as cover by the Iron Throne archers, and the bodies of many of them lay sprawled out on the tiles in spreading pools of blood, mixed here and there with the white tabards of Flaming Fists. The young Fist warmage lay among them, flat on his face with a smoking hole in his back and clearly dead, though some of the prone bodies let out pained moans and shifted a bit as Ashura and Viconia passed.

Thankfully there was no sign of Imoen or Xan. There were two healing draughts left in the pouch at Ashura's belt (a tap with her knuckles reassured her that they were still there) that could be put to use if she stumbled upon an injured companion, at least.

As they neared the foot of the stairs another shockwave ran through the floor and the pair braced themselves, crouching a bit. The tremor didn't seem quite as strong as the first –an aftershock perhaps– but flecks of plaster fell around them and the cracks in the walls and ceiling spread. What in the Hells was happening? Had an earthquake just struck by coincidence, in the middle of the battle?

Of course there was a far more likely explanation. The Flaming Fist's most powerful mage was down there somewhere, and apparently fighting. Hopefully she wouldn't bring the whole damn tower down around them all.

* * *

He would not flinch. He would not cower.

Even as tons of broken stone rained down upon the sewer canal all around him, the only attempt at cation Sarevok made was to step forward a few paces, positioning himself under the open gap that Moruene's transmutation spell had formed in the ceiling. Jagged shards of rock struck his helm– bouncing off the toothy maw of its underside, but he kept his face upturned. He watched, and he gripped The Blade of Chaos steady.

Thunder all around him. Massive hunks of rock that sent up great waves and filled the air with mist and muck. Along with that came other debris: shattered boxes, dented barrels, a corpse, and then a human form that was flapping her arms and kicking her legs franticly as she fell. Sarevok instantly recognized the black plate armor, lips tightening as he heard Tamoko let out a pained sound when she struck the water.

At least pain and motion meant that she was alive. To his left another massive hunk of ceiling plummeted, drawing his attention, along with a figure in a black dress that whipped through the air about her before both she and the debris disappeared in a shower of white foam and dark water.

_ There you are.  _ He faced the churning muck and rain where the stone and the archmage and landed. If he was fortunate she would be crushed beneath the flooring, but Sarevok knew from experience that he would never exactly be what people thought of as _lucky._ Blood and strife always followed, wherever he went and whatever he did.

There was a limb flailing beneath the fallen stone, and then surprisingly the entire slab titled and slid into the water as Moruene shrugged out from under it and pushed herself up, clashing auras of light flaring about her. No doubt one of those was some strength-enhancing spell, along with the physical protections that she _still_ wore.

_ At least she fell close by.  _ Sarevok could sense a presence a pace or so behind him as well. Semaj had fallen into the water, thrashing and cursing. Above them two other figures floated over the canal. Winski and Angelo had both had the sense to use levitation spells, and at the moment they hovered on opposite sides of the tunnel, almost looking like opponents sizing each other up for a mageduel. Hopefully that farce would end soon.

Moruene was soaked to the skin, but otherwise seemed entirely intact: her dress undamaged beyond the handful of rips that had required tremendous effort on Sarevok's part. There were no burns from the countless spells that had been thrown her way, and no bruises from being briefly pinned under a bloody _slab of stone_. Even her bun was mostly in place; a few soggy locks of hair loose and plastered to her face. Layers upon layers of protection had been stripped away or faded, but they kept reappearing thanks to redundant spells and contingencies. She had to be on her lasts legs now though. She had to be!

Water sloshing and parting, Sarevok waded forward as swiftly as he could, Blade of Chaos held high and the fire still surging through his veins. He was perhaps five paces from his foe when her next spell struck, taking the form of stark white mist and glistening crystals that flew from her fingertips. The blast of artic wind forked before Sarevok as he pushed on, sparing him from frostburn, but with a mighty crackle the water he was wading through _froze_ ; a sudden presence clamping around his legs.

At the same time Semaj gasped in pain nearby, not so well protected, but Sarevok's eyes were fixed on the archmage. _Determined to make every step a struggle, eh?_ A crackle, then a mighty crack, and the serrated edges of his greaves cut through the ice. It took another kick for both legs to come fully free, his teeth bared as he marched on his foe, half-grimace and half-grin.

As Sarevok took the last few steps Angelo floated down behind Moruene. His longbow was drawn back, the faint white glow of the enchantment on his arrow illuminating his stony face. Then the bowstring thumped and that arrow flew, brighter and brighter as it streaked across the water.

When it struck Moruene in the back the arrow burst into a thousand white stars, the broadhead deflected by her protective wards. But instead of exploding outward, each point of hot white light pressed in, clinging to the archmage's barrier, the glow just growing and growing. A second blinding flash followed, and when it cleared the shimmering aura that had hung about Moruene was gone.

The spell that had been building at the woman's fingertips faltered slightly as she looked over her shoulder in shock, and with impeccable timing Winski launched a flurry of arcane bolts in her direction at the same instant. Each buzzing streak of energy struck Moruene cleanly, staggering her and sending up a trail of smoke, and for once Sarevok thought a spell would _finally_ die on her lips.

But no: she shouted out the final words and flung a bolt of light over Sarevok. No matter. Filthy ice was flying through the air now, the last few steps of his path shattered before him. The Blade of Chaos swept back and the fires in his belly grew.

Here she was, shrinking back and seeming to be half his height as he leapt forward: a leader of the Flaming Fist, the most powerful mage in the city, stripped of her glamour and wounded and at _last_ vulnerable. A lightning-quick stroke of Sarevok's sword caught Moruene in the side and sent her flying back.

It was a blow that _should_ have cut her cleanly in half. But it did not.

_ Blast!  _ Even without her spells there were probably protective enchantments woven into that dress. Still, the slash cut deep. Sarevok had felt ribs caving before Moruene was knocked back, and the channel had been showered with her blood.

Moruene stumbled and slipped, falling into the water. She slid backwards from there, trying to delay the inevitable, and Sarevok pursued, reeling his sword back for a stab.

Lips trembling and foamy blood forming at the edge of the old woman's mouth, she let out a gurgling cough, and then to Sarevok's surprise it was followed by trembling, draconic words and a wave of her hand. Energy flashed there, on her fingertips, and then a man-sized wave of sewer water rose up to buffet him.

He stood his ground, shrugged it off and pushed on, his greatsword sweeping forward as he lunged and stabbed. Her aimed to pierce her chest and skewered her the way he had skewered another annoying mage months ago, but Moruene somehow managed to wriggle up onto her feet, and the blade cut into her stomach instead.

The nimbus of energy still hung about her fingers, and with a gasp of pain and rage she flung her hands forward, an invisible force _pushing_ against Sarevok. The blast of telekinesis launched Moruene off of the sword before she could be fully impaled, and she flew into the water, landing with another splash.

Another delay. _Enough!_ Swinging his sword back, Sarevok growled and readied a final swing, aiming for the mage's neck as she sputtered and gurgled out ragged words and pink blood. " _Siltir varak –keev_."

There was a ripple across the surface of Moruene's face and body, and then The Blade of Chaos passed through empty air as water splashed in to fill the sudden void where she had been.

* * *

This _had_ to be the top story of the tower, at least judging by the lack of visible stairs leading further up. Also, the ceiling was lower here, making the wide, marble chamber seem almost cozy compared to the grand floors they had passed through in their climb. Once again polished tiles lined the floors beneath elegant pillars and walls of sturdy stone, and in this room everything was overlooked by an imposing marble statue, roughly nine feet tall and depicting a woman in elegant robes with stunted devil's horns upon her head.

As Ashura and Viconia crested the stairs they caught sight of Duke Eltan, his remaining soldiers lined up to protect him as he knelt in pain, his sword now a crutch and the priest of Helm trying once again to tend to him. Ashura cringed, pace slowing, and Garrick gave her a puzzled look as she stepped past him, his upbeat song suddenly missing a note.

Up ahead arrows were whistling back and forth between the line of Fist soldiers and the remaining guards they had chased up here, the Fists locked in an impromptu shield-wall as their archers periodically fired through briefly parting gaps.

The Throne soldiers seemed to have taken shelter in a hallway up ahead, protected by the narrow stone walls. Their leader –the archer in heavy plate– still stood, though few of his followers remained. Ashura caught a glimpse of the conjuress in the green dress, one man in Calishite garb, and perhaps one or two of the archers in heavy leathers.

Another volley of arrows from the Fists, then the man in the white desert cloak shot out of cover and raised an ornate golden scepter high. There was a flash of golden light at the end of the wand, and in response roaring flames flashed from the ceiling and descended in a spiraling pillar, right in the middle of the Fist's steady line.

Howls of pain erupted and the line fell apart, soldiers stumbling away, one batting frantically at flames that were spreading along her tabard and another fully on fire, rolling across the tiles.

It was a brief –if terrible– blast, the pillar quickly loosing fuel and going out with a _whiff_ and a lot of smoke, but by then the man in the desert cloak had retreated and conjured a wall of thick white fog that sealed the mouth of the hallway. The priest of Helm was ignoring that, and the injured soldier who was rolling on the floor as his companions attempted to pat him out as well. His attention was on Eltan alone.

"The grand duke is poisoned!" he shouted. "Can anyone render aid?"

Viconia seemed to be focused on the fogbank, and she had already begun chanting, so with a shrug Ashura stepped forward and scooted in beside Duke Eltan, placing a hand upon his armored shoulder and closing her eyes. _What a crock of shit. Me. A healer._ But the power that had once saved Xan's life welled up easily enough, and for a moment her senses seemed to slither down Eltan's shoulder, through skin, muscle, and then veins, seeking out the corruption and tugging at it.

She came back to herself when the grand duke exhaled, breathing out a faintly glowing fog: the poison and the magic all wrapped together and now drawn out. Dissipating.

The duke quickly recovered, gave Ashura a curt nod, and pushed himself to his feet. By then Viconia had finished her invocation, her hands pushing forward as she launched a steak of white energy that leapt across the chamber and struck the fogbank. There was a flash, and then the mists rolled away and dissipated instantly, revealing…

…that the archer in platemail, the last remaining guard and the wand-wielding Calishite were already on the floor.

Xan stood above the dead Iron Throne leader, panting hard and gripping his moonblade with both hands, and Imoen was shooting to her feet, holding a dripping dagger above the man in the desert cloak, who was twitching as his lifeblood spread out in a great pool that leaked from his opened throat. The conjeress in green had backed into a nearby wall, and with another step she slipped into a yawning quicksilver portal that instantly swallowed her and shut with a flash.

And that seemed to be that. The purple pair ( _Hm. Maybe I should start calling them Team Violet? Imoen would love that_ ) must have slipped invisibly past the last of the resistance and flanked them, and the body of the last guard looked to be tangled up with the plate-wearing archer, as if he had tackled him. Charms, confusion, and backstabbing.

"Nice job," Ashura remarked as she walked towards her friends and the Flaming Fists tended to their wounded.

"Yup!" Imoen agreed, a big, pleased grin on her round (and slightly blood-splattered) face.

* * *

A furious, animal howl accompanied the sweep of Sarevok's sword as it cut across the surface of the frothing water. Then, once it had reached its zenith, it slashed down once again. "By all the Hells!"

"Doubtful that she will survive," Winski offered. "An old woman. With an opened belly and a collapsed lung. She'll bleed out. Or choke to death on the leaking fluids. Or simply die from shock."

Sarevok leveled the old Rashemi mage with a glare and fought the urge to strike out at him with his sword. _Patronizing! The old man is always patronizing me._ It was possible that what he said would happen, of course. But someone as wealthy, powerful and resourceful as Moruene…

At the moment Sarevok could almost believe the rumors that the bitch was a dragon in disguise.

She would survive. Probably bathing in the best healing draughts Flaming Fist money could buy right now. At the _mos_ t, and with luck, they had taken her (as Sarevok's father would say) off the game board. But she would be back. A fly in the ointment.

Sarevok continued to glare, while behind him Tamoko carefully melted the ice that had encased Semaj's lower half with a combination of gentle flames and healing prayers. "Winski!" he demanded. "Why was she not barred from teleportation?"

As always the old Rashemi's voice was patient and calm, even in the face of his master's rage. "She was. We placed wards." His eyes lifted towards the collapsed ceiling above them. "Up there. We never anticipated fighting in this sewer pipe."

Sarevok let out a low growl, but he had no retort. The old man was right, after all. They had done all they could, and not _quite_ managed to decapitate the Fist. Best to work in the here and now.

He turned. _Hm. That direction would be east._ And he knew these tunnels well, at least. "We'd best get moving. I can lead us to passage to the undercity." Their secret lair was down there. With supplies for the next step of their journey.

"What about me?" Angelo asked.

"Back to the Fist," Sarevok said as he waited impatiently for Tamoko to get Semaj moving.

"If they realize-"

"Put an arrow in Eltan's eye if he catches on. And then run," Sarevok ordered, nonchalant. "Not ideal, but we'll improvise."

"That's not-" Angelo started to protest, but Sarevok silenced him with a murderous glare.

"You can teleport. Quit whining."

* * *

With a shove from the butt of a spear the prisoner stumbled down the final steps of the tower, gibbering apologies all the way. "Please!" he begged as he hurried across the scorched tiles of the lobby. "This is all Rieltar's doing. I swear! I just balance the books. I'm a simple businessman. I know nothing about that snake's scheming!"

Stonefaced, Grand Duke Eltan shrugged the slightest of shrugs. "We'll find out everything you know soon enough." Five more prisoners followed the first, hands bound behind their backs as well, though they kept their eyes cast down and their mouths shut. All of them looked to be simple servants, caught up in the raid.

Their leader, by contrast, had never stopped talking. The man was named Thaldorn Tenhevich, and seemed to be some sort of noble familiar to the grand duke. And, if Thaldorn was to be believed, Rieltar Anchev was nowhere near the tower, having left a few days previous for Candlekeep of all places. Neutral ground for some sort of business meeting.

Ashura shook her head, still puzzling over that. The man who had been plotting her death from the beginning was now heading for her old home. A coincidence? In the past there _had_ been powerful people who had entered the citadel purely for the purpose of truce accords with their enemies, so it was not unheard of. Something to ponder, at least.

Not even capturing Rieltar. This whole venture sure seemed like the biggest Nar victory, even if Ashura's little company had not lost any of their own. Of the Flaming Fist regulars that had marched into the tower only five remained, plus the grand duke and his attentive priest.

"And I'll cooperate!" Thaldorn was saying, in response to Eltan's threats. "I swear! I swear!'

Completely ignoring the man now, Grand Duke Eltan glared at the doorway that led out of the tower. There was a disheveled figure squatting there. Commander Dosan, it seemed, white and red uniform covered in dust and muck.

"Angelo!" Eltan barked out. "Where is Mor…where…" He suddenly looked dizzy, swaying and pinching his eyes shut as his hand covered his face.

"Sir?" the priest beside him inquired in an anxious tone.

"The…the damn…" Eltan muttered, voice trailing off as his knees caved and he again fell in a heap upon the floor.


	72. Parallel Paths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein our heroes are sent on a mission

_"Even if men had never devised enchantment spells, illusions, or shape changing magic, a mob would still be easy enough to redirect. With those tools available it becomes a trivial matter. Now get to it!"_ –Fzoul Chembryl

 

* * *

Time crawled by in the dim, damp corridor far beneath the fortress and the earth. There was nowhere to sit, so the five members of Imoen's little band were forced to lean against the cold stone walls and fidget the minutes away, faces lit by nothing but faint torchlight from widely spaced sconces. It would have been an uncomfortable wait even in silence, but the howls of agony and whimpered pleas that emanated from behind the nearby door sure made it worse.

Imoen hugged her chest, head turned and chin pressed to her shoulder as she tried and failed to avoid listening, and beside her Xan just shook his head. Next to them sat Garrick, still in his 'scruffy rogue' getup, his harp out and cradled between numb fingers. Looked like he couldn't quite bring himself to start playing a tune. Screams make for poor musical accompaniment, Imoen supposed.

Since Ashura was just leaning back and being an uncaring lump, as usual, Imoen took it upon herself to squat down and pat the bard on the shoulder. He gave her one of his cute, strained smiles and she forced a smile right back. Could certainly sympathize with the fellow, sitting here dressed up like someone who'd gone to a jaunty costume party only to have it end in tragedy. _We both had our heads full o' notions 'bout do-goodin' and adventure once, but the nitty-gritty of it sure can get nasty._ In the tales the heroes would often drop the evildoers off with the appropriate authorities after defeatin' 'em, but the storytellers always glossed over what happened after that.

"This is so _unnecessary_ ," Xan muttered. "The man was telling the truth from the very beginning."

Imoen nodded. At least it was just the Iron Throne leader who was being interrogated. The servants had just been packed away in a holding cell without any rough business. "Bet'cha don't have torture chambers in Evereska."

Xan gave her a weary look. "We do actually. High as our chins tend to go, my people are not above such barbarity." He turned and gave Viconia a challenging, preemptive look, anticipating her snort. "Of course my training is meant to make such things unneeded."

The drow just scoffed again. "Unneeded, but oh so enjoyable. You talk as if information is the point, but the man being stretched on the rack in the room beyond is not there to _inform_. He is paying a price in pain for all the inconvenience and grief his captors have suffered. I've no doubt that if I were captured by _your_ people" –a pointed look at the moon elf– "such a price would be extracted from my hide for all the sins of my race."

"Perhaps," Xan conceded, "but you would be treated far gentler than the drow treat their prisoners, if half the stories are to be believed."

"That is not something I will debate." A pause. "There…" She seemed to be considering her words. "There is a reason I am here, and no longer in Menzoberranzan."

Xan raised an eyebrow, but the priestess did not elaborate.

The screaming had quieted now, and they waited a few minutes longer in blessed –if bored– silence. Then the reinforced door to the inner dungeon lurched open and Commander Dosan (Imoen kept wondering if she should ask him what relation he was to Ess-Tee, but figured it might be best not to go prying there, 'specially if Angelo really was who she guessed he was) stepped briskly out. For a moment he seemed a little lost in thought, but then he noticed the group all huddled nearby and straightened his posture.

A swivel on his heel (boy did he put a lot of polish in those boots of his!) and the commander started down the hall, towards the stairs that led up to ground level. The gesture for them to follow seemed to come as an afterthought.

"Thaldorn spoke the truth right off," Dosan casually remarked as he led them up the stairs and through mazes of dimly lit hallways.

"I could have told you that, with no blood spilled," Xan muttered.

"Rieltar and his closest servants did indeed leave for Candlekeep, of all places," Dosan went on, ignoring the elf. "Off to seal some sort of deal with the Knights of Shield on protected ground. A wise spot to run off to, if the old snake suspected that we were after him. Those Watchers go by their own laws, and don't care a wit for outside authority."

"'Our rules…are very strict!'" Imoen proclaimed in her best deep, stuffy man-voice, imitating the old Gatewarden.

The commander just gave her an odd look, then realization came and he chuckled humorlessly as they mounted yet another staircase, moving higher and higher through the keep. "Ah yes. I had heard that some you hail from Candlekeep."

Imoen and Ashura both nodded.

"And I suppose you both know the grounds well? Hmm." They crossed an open chamber lined with racks of shields, swords and spears, and beyond that lay a nondescript room dominated by a spiral stairway. "Unfortunately," Angelo added, "the little man didn't seem to know much else. He had no idea what poison they had used on Eltan, or why it's been proving so tenacious."

"Ooo! Ooo!" Imoen exclaimed, raising a hand as if she were back in grammar class at the great library and _totally_ knew the answer. "We might be able ta help with that too!"

Commander Dosan raised an eyebrow.

"We had some problems with an assassin using some cursed poison on one of ours. Couldn't be removed by normal means. Might very well be the same dern stuff that's got the duke. But this nice apothecary named Lothander helped lift the curse." Best not to tell the _whole_ story of course. Wouldn't want that nice young herbalist to end up in that dungeon if they found out that he was the one who had mixed the concoction in the first place.

"Ah. I've heard of the man. We'll send for him at once."

Imoen clapped. "Happy to help."

The commander led them on in silence, round and round the spiral stair 'till they popped up into a chamber that seemed to be some sort of office; a wooden desk and stuffed chair the only furnishings. Neat stacks of papers and an inkpot sat upon the desk, and narrow windows lined the western wall, overlooking the city from far above. There were two reinforced doors, leading to other rooms in the tower, and that was it.

_Is this really the office of a grand duke?_ Seemed like there should at least be some wall-hangings with Flames and Fists and all that. Imoen certainly knew that if _she_ were ever a duchess (or really in any position that warranted an _office_ ) there would be a lot more colorful decorations. Maybe some pink streaming banners. Some paintings of purple and emerald dragons too. And an oversized globe. Every office needs one of those! And some statues in dramatic poses. Oh! And golden gilding everywhere!

Commander Dosan approached one of the doors, pausing to straighten himself and take a deep breath. A quick wrap upon the wood followed, and a moment later the door swished open, revealing the priest of Helm who had stayed by Eltan's side throughout the raid, his eyes glassy and red-rimmed. Stepping back, the priest invited them further in.

"Rashad," Commander Dosan said by way of greeting as he entered. "How is the grand duke?"

"Awake and feisty as ever," the priest remarked. "If a bit weak of limb."

They entered what appeared to be a bedroom, slightly cozier than the office (there were carpets here at least,) but still mostly unadorned. A broad, canopied bed dominated the chamber, the curtains tied back to reveal its sole occupant. He was dressed in a nightshirt, propped up on pillows, swaddled with blankets, and quite clearly agitated. Looked a bit like Shura had when the poison had robbed her of the strength to move.

Dosan quickly hurried to the grand duke's side and began to speak in a low voice, bringing his commander up to speed from the sound of it. That took their time, leaving the mercenaries to fidget awkwardly in the back of the bedroom. Better than waiting in a dungeon, of course, but as far as Imoen was concerned this whole fortress could really use some more chairs. _Eventually_ Eltan waved them over, and Ashura took the lead, stepped right up to the bedside.

"I take it none of you saw any sign of Moruene back at the tower?" Eltan asked in a low, weak voice. All he got in reply were headshakes, and he frowned down at his hands, fingers rubbing the bronze bracelet that he wore on his wrist. "Troubling. Though she's still alive. I know it." He shook his head, squirming in an attempt to sit up straight and wincing when even that became a chore. "Candlekeep then," he muttered, changing the subject. "Seems that's where the mastermind behind all of this has scurried off to. A pretty clever place to hide. It's one of the few spots on the Coast I'd be hesitant to storm, even in the best of health."

Ashura gave a slight nod. "Clever. Until his tenday runs out at least. The Watchers are prickly about that."

"True. You lived in the Citadel right? Ashura Adrian of Candlekeep? I believe they call you that."

"Yeah. Grew up there." She hooked a thumb in Imoen's direction. "Her too."

"You two hardly look like librarians."

That brought out a little snerk from Imoen. "I was a barmaid at the local tavern." She pointed at Ashura. "And she was a the local ratcatcher."

"Uh huh. In any case, I can't storm the Citadel, but you two know it. The place and the people. And you said that you had a reason to go after Rieltar?"

"Yeah," Ashura replied. "Pretty sure he's been sending assassins after me. So I guess I owe him. Would be nice to find out why too. Feel like we're still missing quite a few puzzle pieces here."

"I know," Eltan agreed. "We walked right into an ambush back there. A trap. My guess is that Rieltar knew that his planted doppelganger would be discovered at some point, and predicted how the Fist would react. I thought we would have the element of surprise, but I should have waited. Brought more soldiers. Planned it out." He sighed. "And not turned by back on that damn doorman."

"Yeah. Maybe."

"Or," the grand duke muttered, "they had that ambush ready because they have eyes and ears here. They stole Scar out from under our noses. There could well be other spies. _Or_ maybe this really is an elaborate Amnish plot, and they set Rieltar up. Sadly we often have to operate in the fog of war, making our best guesses with incomplete information. And right now we know that Rieltar Anchev is hiding out in Canddlekeep. And you seem to be the perfect people to send after him."

Ashura chewed on that. "The Watchers won't-"

"True. You won't be able to attack him in the sanctuary. But you know the place. You can follow him, find out when and how he'll be leaving. And set up an ambush of your own."

Ashura considered that a moment. "Yeah. There's only one road. And that narrow causeway."

"He's a mage. So be cautious. And if you can bring him back for questioning you'll be paid well. Let's say a thousand gold? Half that if you can't take him alive. Though that would be unfortunate. I know we both have reasons to want him dead, but we _need_ to get to the bottom of this."

"Agreed," Ashura said without hesitation.

 

* * *

Her eyes were closed and her head was bent in concentration, fingers tapping at the ivory keys, yet try as she might Skie Silvershield could not draw out the joyful sound that she was aiming for. Rather than dancing across the ivory as the simple tune called for, her fingers lingered, pausing between each _tinking_ note, and she found herself hovering over the minor keys and improvising more and more.

_The Dance of Spring_ was a song she knew better than any other: first memorized as a child and then heard countless times as she practiced at the beam on the other side of this very room; pirouetting, shimmying and prancing to the swelling music and driving tempo. She could play every note blindfolded, and knew all the steps to the accompanying dance, having performed the full piece three years running at Grand Duchess Jannath's Greengrass celebrations, her and the other dancers dressed up in the customary woven-flower cloaks and lacy pastels.

But this slower version that she found herself tapping out gave nothing for dancers to leap to. Appropriate, Skie supposed, as she looked up and caught a glimpse of the gardens that the music room overlooked: the grass a withered brown and the branches gnarled and naked, stretching up to claw at a blank grey sky. No spring to dance for here.

Again she closed her eyes, drawing out yet more space between the notes. It had truly become a song of her own invention now, but her audience (of one) seemed to be enjoying it. There was a thoughtful peace to his upturned face, soaking in the melody and nodding his head here and there. Hard to tell, of course, if the boy was truly enraptured by the music or if he was simply going through the polite motions that his governess had taught him.

No matter. This song was not for him.

By now _The Dance of Spring_ would have taken on the cadence of driving rain and crashing thunder, building to a crescendo, but instead Skie's piece drifted along, her fingers stabbing out a few jangling notes before the music softened and slowed. Gradually it wound down, quieter and quieter, ending on a long, lingering note, and when she lifted her eyes from the keys of the grand piano young Lord Gist was smiling serenely in her direction.

He then clapped, inclining his head. "You play divinely, m'lady."

She gave a perfunctory little bow of her own. "You honor me."

No further comment followed, and in the stiff silence Skie found herself looking down again and fidgeting with the sheet music that had been left on the stand. A simple children's song stood at the front of the stack of papers, likely something Elsa had been teaching her nieces in their off time.

_'The Goblin Went Out to Woo.'_ How appropriate.

_No_ , she chastised herself. That wasn't fair. The Gist boy was hardly a goblin. Just gawky and out of place.

_Supposedly_ this boy –Lord Gist's eldest son– had seen seventeen autumns, but they must have been the mildest autumns imaginable. It was unclear if he had even started shaving yet, his burgundy waistcoat hung loose and awkward on his gangly frame, and his nose and ears were a bit too big for his narrow face, all contributing to give him a mousy look. Much as Skie was trying to be a proper lady and adhere to her parents' wishes from now on, this seemed entirely too much. 'But he's just a boy!' she had hissed at her mother when she had first been told who was coming to visit for the afternoon.

Lady Brilla Silvershield had just waved a dismissive hand. 'He will be of age soon enough, and if there is to be a courtship it should take time, in any case. And you _did_ call Lord Oberan old and stuffy. I thought you would be happy entertaining someone closer to your age.'

Pish! (As Imoen would say.) This would be her twenty-first winter, coming up. If she didn't know her mother any better Skie would have guessed that this was meant to be a slight, but more likely it was just mother's usual obliviousness.

Still, even if Skie had no intention of ever marrying the young lord, it was her duty to entertain. And the silence was dragging. "Did you recognize the piece?" she asked.

A slightly pained look, and then he shook his head.

_Whoops! So he's definitely not a music person._ And she had gone and embarrassed the guest! Her governess would have shaken her head sharply at that. 'Never lead a man of noble blood into admitting ignorance.'

"M'lady," young Lord Gist said, obviously wanting to change the subject as well. "You appear a touch restless. Perhaps an afternoon stroll through the gardens would relieve that?"

Skie turned towards the great bay window once again. A walk through that bare and familiar yard, under a heavy sky that threatened rain at any moment. Not appealing. "The weather is…hardly ideal." She looked around. _Hmm._ "Though, I have found that this gymnasium room can make for a good retreat on dreary days." There were many fond memories here. Probably her favorite room in the entire manor.

Gist cocked his head, confused, so Skie gestured about. "I trained to dance from an early age in here, with that bar and mirror. And on the balance beam as well; that was always fun."

But now he just looked confused _and_ embarrassed. _Oops._ She flailed along desperately, talking fast. "Of course I hardly expect you to be trained in dance, beyond the courtly steps. But do youuu…fence, perchance?"

His face actually brightened at that, and his posture straightened. _Oh good!_

"Of course, m'lady. I have been trained to defend my honor and that of my house with steel. And in the ways of archery and the equestrian arts as well. I've been told that I excel with the longbow and rapier."

Skie clapped her hands. "Excellent then!" Maybe they could find something in common after all, though young Lord Gist was still giving her a puzzled look.

 

* * *

With her fist balled up and pressed against her mouth, Skie had to resist the urge to chew her knuckles, wide eyes following her father as he paced back and forth across the polished hardwood. "Of all the…" Entar Silvershield stammered. "If you disliked the boy so very much there are _gentler_ ways to be rid of someone!"

Behind him Lady Brilla Silvershield stood ramrod straight, her posture and her black-and-silver-veiled hennin making her appear to tower over her hunched and pacing husband; his grim and disapproving shadow. From time to time her head would give a terse little shake.

"You were taught such things, surely!" Entar went on. "What did I pay that endless succession of tutors for? Some day you will be speaking on behalf of this household, and you cannot deal with the Merchant League or House Jannath or the Mercer's Guild by bopping them on the head with a blunted sword!"

"I- I- never did…I didn't intent…" Skie stammered.

"Well what in the world _did_ you intend?" A rhetorical demand, since she wasn't given a chance to reply. "Dressing like some sailor" –Skie glanced down at the trousers and jacket she had changed into to practice fencing with the Gist boy– "and stomping about the dance floor like it was some dusty training yard? So that you could humiliate and unman the young lord you were _supposed_ to be entertaining!"

_Unman?_ She had never even aimed below the belt! And even after young Lord Gist's lip started quivering and he had turned and fled she was pretty sure there had been no bleeding. "I'm…I'm sorry father. I thought it might be a way _to_ entertain him. We had nothing in common, but I realized that we both had practiced sword-fighting and…well…"

Entar Silvershield sighed and rubbed his forehead, and behind him Lady Brilla finally spoke. "Absolutely shameful," she pronounced. "Perhaps in whatever backwoods you went tramping about in during your…vacation the barbarians show their affection by bashing each other with sticks or wrestling about like animals to win a…a…mate." Another shake of her head, and her nose went even higher. "But as your father said, you were _taught_ better. However will you find a worthy husband if you cannot show the slightest bit of deference to a man of high nobility?"

"I will next time," Skie muttered at her shoes. "I promise. I'm sorry."

But Brilla just continued to shake her head, and with a grand swish of her gown she walked out of the music room. "How did they both go wild?" Skie heard her mother grumble to herself as she glided away. "We'll have to find yet _another_ tutor. Or at least…" And then she was gone.

Entar gave his daughter a tired look. "Sword fighting," he sighed.

"Well…I thought he'd have fun…"

Her father surprised her then, with an understanding nod. "It's something you did for fun isn't it, in that adventuring band you ran away with? Quiet times at camp spent practicing and competing with your weapons? Target practice and fencing and the like?"

Skie nodded slightly.

"You may recall that I've spent many a day in a military camp myself. I was around your age too."

Another timid nod. "I know father. The Free Coast Knights. You fought at the Winding Water and helped take the Wolf's Fort."

"Among other places. I was never quite the adventurer that your great-grandfather Daneth was, what with all the tall tales that grew up around him, but many would call the campaigns I led 'adventures.' I remember some thrilling moments too, but what stuck with me were the many friends I lost along the way." He looked off. "Little accidents most times. There was this squire boy we all teased for his breathless over-enthusiasm. 'Fetcher' the men called him. One day he poked his head up at the wrong moment during a battle and caught an arrow. Just like that. Wasn't even trying to fetch anything or be heroic; just a little twitch of curiosity at exactly the wrong time."

Entar Silvershield drew in a deep breath. "I worked hard to keep my children from a life like that. There's no _need_ for it; all our family victories were won long ago. But your brother always insisted on taking to the road, until…"

"I know father. I'm sorry. The next suitor mother invites I…well you know I can't promise to like him, but there'll be no sword fighting."

Entar actually chuckled. "Men of high blood…well, they have to command the respect of those around them. Always putting on a face. Not to mention that with some men those around them are also _commanded_ to show respect, even if it is never actually earned. So when some slender girl suddenly bests one of these young men at fencing, say a young man whose tutors probably overindulged him…"

"I see. I should have known better."

"Next time perhaps a game of draughts or chess? And if he seems extremely stuck-up, for Waukeen's sake just politely let him win! I won't force you to marry someone you detest, but at least don't send a guest from an important family off crying again!"

"Yes father."

 

* * *

The trap opened with a click and a flutter, and the last prisoner left upon the gallows dropped through. Suddenly suspended, his legs wheeled in the empty air and his bound wrists strained pointlessly behind his back. His mouth opened and closed and opened again, struggling to draw breath or shout some final curse (or likely both), but no sound emerged.

_Finally_ silent. That came as a relief to Sarevok at least. The Flaming Fist soldiers had kept the man gagged on the march to his execution, but once final rites had been given by a stern priest of Tyr custom had demanded that the prisoner have one last opportunity to speak. Thaldorn Tenhevich had sure used it: screaming, begging, and pleading for his life. All over now. The hempen rope had silenced the man for good.

Not that the fool would have had much of use to say, even in the hands of a true interrogator like that Evereskan Greycloak who continued to sniff about. Thaldorn had always been quite content in his role as the public and legitimate face of the Iron Throne, minding the books and making the more mundane deals while leaving the unsavory business (which filled his coffers well enough) to those in the shadows. Thus when he had shouted 'I don't know anything about any plots!' he had meant it.

A bruised grey sky hung heavy over the gallows square, threatening rain but never quite delivering. Perfect weather for this sort of show, and Commander Dosan had made sure it was just that. By custom and by the writ of execution the prisoners were supposed to be hanged at dawn, but Angelo had dragged the preparations out well past the seventh bell, ensuring that a sizable crowd had gathered. There was a sea of faces out there now, some shouting or booing the prisoners, while others exchanged uncertain murmurs.

For extra drama Angelo had also held off on hanging all the prisoners at once, first having the sentences of the captured Iron Throne servants (a fat bartender, two maids, a shriveled little clerk, and a manservant) read aloud (treason, spying for a foreign nation, and every legalistic-sounding variation on those terms that they could tack on), and then executing them _en masse_ as a sort of first act. It was only after that that their 'ringleader' was frogwalked up onto the stage.

It was almost a shame about the servants: that manservant had always been the picture of attentiveness, and one of the maids had been _most_ kind to Sarevok on a few occasions. But this sacrifice was a tiny drop compared to what was to come, and the path that he was on would demand the blood of friends as well as foes.

Now all six bodies swayed beneath the horizontal pole above the platform, hands tied behind their backs, mouths agape, and dressed in uniform roughspun rags; the placards against their chests proclaiming their crimes. And Thaldorn was going through his last twitches. Pushing away from the wall he had been leaning against, Sarevok straightened, brushing off his doublet and neatly pleated trousers. Time for his part in the show.

The pair of guards at the scaffolding steps gave him incredulous looks as he approached, but he brushed right by and they made no move to stop him. He was nobility here after all, and nobles go where they wish. Especially when they're over six-and-a-half feet tall and broad as a bull.

Mounting the steps, he looked out over the crowd. It was mostly the sort you'd see out and about on a dreary morning in the merchant quarter: craftsmen on their way to work, servants and greengrocers out running their endless cycle of errands, hauling crews, a few clumps of filthy street children, and several brightly dressed well-to-dos. All had been drawn here by the unexpected spectacle, and mixed in were a few men and women with sharp clothing and blank, unreadable faces. Faces that Sarevok recognized, even though he knew that each one of them could have shifted into something different at any moment.

Uncertain murmurs ran through the crowd, the words _'Iron Throne'_ hissed between many lips.

"…fought the Fist didn't they?"

"…hear it's some sort of guild war. Seven Suns are cleaned out and…"

"Can't'cha read? Was an Amnish attack! They're getting bloody blatant…"

"..that's young Lord Anchev ain't it?"

Raising an open hand, Sarevok addressed the mob. "If I may have your attention!" His voice boomed over theirs, but hardly anyone fell silent.

No matter. He pressed on. His words would carry.

"I am Lord Sarevok Anchev, active leader of the Iron Throne until my father's return." His hand swept in the direction of the guards, dressed in red and white and standing around the scaffolding. "And I wish to personally thank these brave soldiers for bringing this…" –venom entered his voice as he jabbed a finger at Thaldorn's dangling corpse– "snake in our midst to justice! Imagine! An Amnish agent and his pack of turncoat spies, poised at the very heart of my organization to stab me, and _all_ of us, in the back!"

Voices rose: more murmuring and a lot of contradictory shouts. Sarevok just barreled on. "As all of you know the plague of broken iron that has devastated both our farms and our army this past year was a plot conceived in the heart of the Land of Intrigue, in alliance with agents of the Black Network. Our good men in the Flaming Fist managed to foil their plans in both the bandit's forest and the Amnish base of operations in the Cloakwood, and between the restored flow of ore and the stockpile of weapons that my house has personally gifted the city we shall be well-prepared when their forces make their move. Despite their best efforts.

"But in retaliation the Iltarch of Amn has attempted to undermine us once again, this time from within! I have been informed by the leaders of the Flaming Fist that this man, whom I once trusted, has been secretly working for the Iltarch, using my own mercantile network to smuggle southern agents and intelligence in and out of the city. And after the blows the Fist recently dealt them these agents chose to take direct action, going so far as to kill Commander Scar and make an attempt on Grand Duke Eltan's life! But thankfully justice has been served."

"These spies were right under your nose!" an angry voice shouted from the throng. "How can we trust you?!"

"Yong Lord Anchev's always played me true."

"Yeah! Supplied my family through the trade stoppage. And at a pittance!"

"He's always given us Vichins a good deal. Helped my sister with those moneylending sharks from Scornubel too!"

"Bah! The Iron Throne's a den of thieves!"

"Could say that for every merchant company."

Through all of this Sarevok worked to keep his face grim, though it was hard not to smile at the boldfaced lies that the doppelgangers were telling. Having thugs planted in a crowd is always useful, but faceshifters posing as members of prominent families work even better.

"I understand your concerns," he shouted over the arguing voices. "Those questions you ask? I've asked them to myself a thousand times on the ride here. How did I not realize that there was something off about Thaldorn? Why did I not question the new faces he was bringing in, though they seemed to be simple and amiable servants? Where did I go wrong?"

"When you joined a gang of criminals!" someone shouted.

Sarevok snorted. "Ha! Yes. The Iron Thone is a cutthroat band when it needs to be. I'll not deny that. We did not achieve our wealth and position by gently petting lambs or sitting by the hearthfire and knitting. I think all of us here know how the world works. And we all pay our dues to Ravenscar. And our tithes to Umberlee."

With a gesture he brought things back to the dead man swaying behind him. "And we all, people of _my_ city, were stabbed in the back when these interlopers from the south slipped in, attempting to fragment and weaken us up for the coming assault." He slapped his chest with an open palm. "They caught me, in my own house, unaware! And let me tell you, my friends, that made me _mad!_ Furious. Ready to open up all the hidden stocks and arm and armor every levy in the city in a manner befitting the way we've outfitted the Fist!"

He paused to chuckle. "Of course my father will urge calm and patience. And he has the final word in the Iron Throne, not I. But, if nothing else, I am here to tell you, people of my city, that this affront has angered me! And I will do everything in my power to strike back at the sniveling merchant lords who did this to my house!"

With that he whirled around and marched for the steps, turning his back to the shouts and the jostling of the mob at the gallows. There were cheers, but many arguments as well. Hard to tell if he had truly won over the crowd.

No matter. One task down, and there were many more ahead this day. His carriage awaited nearby, though the mage who reclined within would provide his true mode of transport. He had an appointment to keep, in a distant citadel to the south.

 

* * *

Ashura couldn't help but smirk as she stowed the book away in her pack. ' _Instructions on Obtaining Clear and Unobstructed Thought, and Other Meditation Techniques._ ' Imoen had also snickered, earlier, when a Flaming Fist Corporal had handed the book to them during breakfast in the barracks, explaining that it had been one of many treasures salvaged from the recent fire at a wizard's tower. Thankfully the guardsman had not been inquisitive.

"We all set?" Ashura asked as she straightened and glanced around. They appeared to be fully packed up, armored, and armed, so when no one objected she turned and set a brisk pace out of the little bunkroom the Fists had been kind enough to let them stay in.

Sleep had not come easily for her that evening on the foreign, narrow cot beneath Imoen's bunk. If it had even come at all. One of those nights where she shifted endlessly from one side to the other, too much adrenaline and strangeness to ever settle, drifting a bit and then giving up when the light of morning invaded through the window.

There had been no dreams at least. Most mornings now she found herself awakened by the feeling that she was choking on smoke, as if she had wandered all night through the inferno surrounded by hisses and alien whispers. Of course having _no_ dreams was a good sign that she hadn't slept at all. Still, Ashura found that she had energy enough, and breakfast in the soldier's hall had been surprisingly hearty: apple sausages with whipped eggs and fried bread, dripping with grease and crackling with each bite.

They had a ways to go now, if they were to catch up with Rieltar at Candlekeep. First to the stables where they were renting space for their horses, and then the long ride south, to the Friendly Arm and beyond. Hopefully their quarry was planning to stay the full time he would be allotted at the Citadel, and would be traveling slow, the way noble entourages tended to.

She had pondered taking a detour to look up Coran and Shar-Teel, but figured it wasn't worth the bother. The elf had seemed happy and preoccupied with his newfound family, not going out to seek 'adventure or nothing' anytime recently, and Shar-Teel had still been bedridden last time they had checked. The five companions left in their company would have to do, and they had made a good team so far.

Beyond the thick stone of the fortress the morning sky as overcast and starting to mist ever so slightly. _Ugh. Hope we won't be riding through Leaffall rains._

Ashura tightened her cloak and started down the western street beyond the gates of the fort, but her companions lingered, gazing in the opposite direction. Following their looks, she noticed that there were more people than usual in the great city square where the mad gnome liked to preach; clumps milling about or wandering off.

"Sweet Seldarine!" Xan gasped, and then Ashura noticed it too, beyond the parting crowd. The gallows platform had always been there when they had passed, but this was the first time it was occupied, six figures dangling from the ropes.

She would have just shrugged and turned away, but Xan was marching forward now, eyes fixed on the bodies. Ashura shook her head and followed. "I guess they caught some thieves or…"

"Do you not have eyes?" the Greycloak grumbled, pointing as they reached the foot of the platform. "That man at the far end."

His face was contorted, and he was dressed differently, but there _was_ something familiar about him. _Oh._ The prisoner from the Iron Throne tower. The one Commander Dosan had been wringing a confession from.

A strange twitch and a sudden chill came over Ashura, but it's source was not the dead bodies. She whirled around, gooseflesh rising and ears drawn to the rumble of wheels and the clomp of heavy hooves on a nearby street. For some inexplicable reason her pulse raced as her eyes fixed on the four-horse carriage, even though it was moving away, and she found herself glaring at the coach's slitted window, her hand gripping Varscona's hilt. There was something about that vehicle: dark, polished wood, white and grey draft horses, an old bearded coachman, and…

_Ah._ The emblem stamped across the door. A stylized throne!

"That doesn't make any sense," Imoen was saying. "It says 'Amnish Spy' on the placard, but we know he never said nothin' 'bout that. We should go tell the grand duke!"

"Silly," Viconia scoffed. "Eltan likely gave the execution order, for political reasons. And he has sent us out on a mission. He might consider it foot-dragging if we were to return to him."

The coach rumbled past a row of houses and out of view, and Ashura's sudden sense of danger evaporated, though for some reason she now felt a strong urge to give chase. The Iron Throne. Her enemy was in that carriage. But it couldn't have been Rieltar, could it?

"Yeah," Ashura muttered, eyes still on the distant buildings. "We should get going. _Maybe_ , if we're far luckier than usual, Rieltar will be the one to finally have some real answers. There don't seem to be any here."

Just more and more questions, the deeper they delved.

 

* * *

_Eltan!_

_Huh?_ Peeling back his eyelids took tremendous effort. He gave up after a few tries.

_Eltan! By all the gods, you'd better answer me!_

That voice...it had been prodding him for some time now, hadn't it? And it was a voice he knew well. Words formed on his lips; something like ' _Can't it wait?_ ' and tried to roll over and away from her, but he just couldn't find the strength to actually speak or move.

Where _was_ he anyway? What had happened? His head was in a fog, and there was a stabbing, permanent ache at his temple that became acute whenever he shifted. And of course any motion reminded him that his body seemed to be made of bricks.

Gods. It felt as if he needed at least another week of sleep, and at the same time that he had been sleeping for a month or more. Had he been out with Saerth and Jonal? That seemed most likely. They'd been drinking till the sun came up once again, the fools-

_No._ He pinched his eyes tightly shut and tried to force his head to clear. Saerth and Jonal were in the ground, going on thirty years now. And Eltan had never touched more than a cup of wince since those days as a junior officer with the Waterdeep Guard. He'd never really cared for drink, even back then when laughing young men were throwing it back all around and he had to keep up to be social.

And Moruene…that was her voice that had been prodding him. But that wasn't right. _He_ was the early riser, and often it took a lot of jostling to get the dragoness going in the morning.

With a deep intake of breath and a sudden burst of strength Eltan shook himself awake, eyes fluttering open and stomach lurching. _Moruene_ , he called back, focusing his bracelet. That's where her voice had come from. _What's going on?_

The voice that replied through the telepathic link was weak and raspy, but sounded relieved. _Oh thank the Weave. Feels like I've been trying to reach you for hours._ Now that he was more aware, he noticed that she sounded completely exhausted. Still, Moruene persisted. _I could sense that you were still there on the other side, but…_

_Was unconscious, or going in and out._ He remembered now. _I think I've been in this bed for about a day…but it's hard to tell. They poisoned me at the tower, and it's something magical. Rashad's curative spells just suppress it for a time. But they're looking for-_

_No! You're still in danger! Listen. Angelo Dosan is a traitor. He blindsided me; nearly killed me. I'm in a bed too, in the Nether Mountains, held together by a lot of Karsa and Borda's bandages._

_Tempus' Shield! We need to-_

_And listen! There's more! It's Sarevok Anchev who's behind all of this. He's a Bhaalspawn! A bloody Bhaalspawn!_

_The boy? I thought that Rieltar-_

_I don't know the whole story, but Sarevok is the biggest threat. He had an ambush waiting for me when I chased the assassin down, and he was wearing the armor of a Deathbringer and wielding some sort of power like a bloody demigod. He shrugged off every one of my spells._

_Damn. Glad you're alright._

There was a bitter little laugh through their connection. _Not the word I'd use. I'm a mess. But I had to…Angelo…_ On the other side it sounded like she was winching. Maybe catching her breath.

_We'll get that snake._ He had managed to wriggle his way up in bed, wedging his back against the headboard so that he could better turn towards the doorway and call for the priest. "Rashad!" The shout came as more of a wheeze.

"Master?"

Eltan started at the voice, right there beside him. Turning, he tried to blink back the mist from his eyes and resolve the blurred form of the man hovering over the bed. Had he been there all along? "Ah. Good," Eltan rasped through a papery throat. "We need to get to the barracks. To gather…" He winced, trying to swallow.

"You need water, my duke?"

Eltan shook his head. "This is urgent. Angelo Dosan is a traitor. We need to get to the barracks, gather all the soldiers we can –preferably some warmages– and arrest the man immediately."

It was still hard for Eltan to focus his eyes, but Rashad's face became clearer now as the healer stooped in close. Rashad's long, lanky hair bobbed a bit as he shook his head. "No. We do not." A strangely reassuring tone, like a parent trying to calm a frantic child. He leaned in further now, stretching out a gentle hand.

"What in Tempus' name are you talking ab..?" Eltan's blood froze when the priest's fingers gently brushed against the polished bronze surface of his bracelet.

"We have no need to do any of that, my duke." A gentle pat, and then the priest took Eltan's hand in his, lifting it up. There was something strangely smooth about that hand, more a squid's flesh than a human's. With a wince Eltan tried to pull away, but then the seemingly squishy fingers were gripping tight as a vice. "And you will not be needing _that._ "

With that last word Rashad's voice changed, the deep baritone and Tethyrian inflections suddenly losing tone and becoming genderless. And… _dear gods!_ Those fingers were starting to coil, wrapping round Eltan's wrist like tendrils; jointless and longer than they had any right to be.

Eltan tried to struggle; tried to slither back on the bed. To kick -to punch- to do _something!_ But every muscle failed him, and all that came were little twitches and a painfully clenching in his stomach that made him want to scream.

A yank and Rashad had slipped the bracelet from Eltan's wrist. There seemed to be something like a smile pulling at the edges of the priest's lips, but then it twisted and blurred, along with the rest of his face. Putty rearranging, then that face stretched and smoothed out, blank and inhuman.

Inhuman, but familiar enough. Eltan knew his bestiaries. And he had killed one of these damn things just yesterday.

Balling his fists and tensing his limbs, the commander of the Flaming Fist took a deep breath and tried to summon up all of his anger and frustration. This would _not_ be how it ended: done in by treachery in his own featherbed, weak as a kitten and replaced by some faceshifter!

_Tempus! Hear your loyal servant's single, ardent prayer! Give me the strength to fight this thing. Grant me a true battle death._ One shoulder tilted back slightly as he readied himself to spring.

"Do not worry," the creature stated in that toneless voice of its, and with that Eltan twisted and launched himself forward, putting all his will into a left hook aimed squarely at the thing's milky face.

The doppelganger dressed as Rashad easily caught the fist, its grip once again as firm as stone. There was no sign of effort in its voice as it continued. "Despite what you think you are not to be killed, my duke. I am here to tend to you." A little shove and Eltan was slammed back against the headboard, where he sank into the nest of pillows.

"I am to give you curing draughts to keep the poison from fully consuming your body. And I shall care for you: wash and water you and keep you safely tucked away in this bed."

Eltan was wheezing hard from the effort of the useless punch, sweat beading his brow. _Blast!_ Even if his little act of defiance _had_ been strong enough to hurt the thing, it could still anticipate his every move. These creatures were mind readers, after all. That's how it had caught on to the communication he was having with Moruene and put a stop to it.

He tried to gulp down a few deep breaths, then tilted his head back. A different tactic. "He…Help!" It was meant to be a scream, but it came out as a whisper.

"This is good," the doppelganger stated. "Your dosage seems perfect at the moment. Balanced in a manner that will keep you alive, yet you'll never be strong enough to do anything but gasp. Please stay just like that, little primate. Any sign of true strength and…" It lifted a hand with claw-like fingers and swatted the air just in front of Eltan's face, buffeting him with wind. "…I will have to be less gentle."

Then it sat back, making ready to slide off the bed and go about its business. "Oh. And please try not to die. Until we need you to, of course."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line about Skie's great-grandfather Daneth Silvershield is meant as a little nod to Nonnahswriter's fic, Baldur's Gate: A Novelization, which opens with Gorion reading the protagonist a bedtime story about the mighty adventurer 'Dan Silvershield.' I now really like the idea of the Silvershield fortune having been built by some legendary adventure named Dan.


	73. The Road Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we return to Candlekeep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning that there's a sex scene at about the midpoint of this chapter. Definitely rated M.

_ "There's a saying that crowded inns make for strange bedfellows, but I would say that the inns in this piece (and there is quite an overreliance on inn-related scenes, let me tell you!) more often make for  _ predictable _bedfellows. The play is simply_ littered _with unbelievable contrivances that the author conjures up to force opposing characters together."_ –Sensate Jeena Ealy, from her (scathing) review of _A Comedy of Terrors_

* * *

Night had fallen over Candlekeep long ago, and as Edwin stepped out into the darkness and rubbed the back of his stiff, stiff neck he found himself wondering what bell it was. In the artificial light of the great library it was so easy to lose track of time. Not unlike the halls of the Academy at Thaymount, though of course the flickering of the light here was an annoying eyestrain. Why this citadel, which had no shortage of mages (minor though they were) had never invested in permanently enchanted glowlamps was beyond him. Tradition or some such nonsense, that they stockpile candlewax rather than pay a competent enchanter.

Hopefully the hour was not so late that an evening meal was out of the question. Being upright and moving about had suddenly awakened Edwin's appetite, and thinking back it seemed that the light morningfeast he had enjoyed shortly after dawn had been the only meal of the day. In fact he felt so famished that the gruel of the Western Heartlands almost seemed appealing. At the very least the heavy tubers and mutton these barbarians favored for every meal would be filling, though he would kill for some saffron.

He stepped down the marble stairs at the front of the library and made his way towards the shriveled gardens of the keep, the fountains up ahead singing their perpetual _tinking_ song. It would almost have been a pleasant stroll, if not for the looming shadow that followed him. Edwin cringed when the _thing_ spoke up.

"Boo said that you were nodding off in your nest of books," the big oaf rumbled just behind him, "and Minsc would need only to tuck you in, then be done with his duties. But it seems you have shaken yourself awake. Good to be outside at least. Too stuffy in there." The big bald ape tilted his head back and breathed in deep, for emphasis.

"There is absolutely no need to 'tuck' me in," Edwin grumbled as he set a brisk pace across the grounds. "I am a grown adult (unlike certain lumbering man-children) and quite capable of making my own bed and blowing out my own candles."

"Grown, yes," Minsc replied. "But you grew into a slippery snake that needs constant watching. For your own good, as well as mine and Dynaheir's."

"Bah! The witch may have told you such, but I assure you-"

"Boo told me such!"

"Yes. Well, whichever of your guardians instructed you to follow me about like a hound, I can assure you…uh…ugh." Edwin's voice trailed off and he simply sighed. It was likely pointless to debate with this walking, talking brick, and he was far too hungry and tired besides. "Follow if you must, then. So long as you promise not to split me in two with that clunky sword of yours."

"You will remain in one piece, little man," the barbarian said. Then he paused, almost appearing _thoughtful_. "So long as you don't do anything particularly evil."

Edwin huffed. "Be assured that I have no diabolical plans for this evening." _Hmm._ He took another tack. "So it was your rodent who suggested that you watch over me? For my 'own good?'"

The great baboon nodded enthusiastically.

"So you are protecting me? (That a Rashemi berserker came rushing to my rescue is still something I have a hard time believing, all these months later.)"

More nodding. "Minsc and Boo have vowed to protect all from evil. By smashing it!"

"But you have, in the past, referred to me as an evil wizard, have you not?" This was perhaps a dangerous line to go down, but the possibility of making the ape's head explode with a logical paradox was too tempting to pass up.

To Edwin's delight the imbecile's brow did furrow with confusion. Briefly.

There was a faint _squeaking_ sound from somewhere near Minsc's chest, beneath the lacquered armor, and then an irritating, child-like smile bloomed on the big man's face. "Quite right you are, Boo!" the giant boomed. "Evil will often try to trick and confuse." He halted suddenly and turned on his heel, fulling facing Edwin. "But the solution is always clear and simple. Laugh in Evil's face!" With that he leaned in –forcing Edwin to involuntarily flinch and take a step back– and let out a great, bellowing "Ha!"

Another swivel, and Minsc started down the garden path once again.

"Evil this and evil that," Edwin grumbled as he composed himself and began to walk as well. "The natterings of a simple mind, unable to deal with a complex world."

"You tried to murder fair Dynaheir," Minsc retorted. "Evil. Plain and simple."

"Ah. But don't you see. I never cared a wit for your witch, one way or another. I was _ordered_ by the leader of my enclave to hunt her. A mission I was meant to complete on pain of death. I had no choice, and in a certain sense my actions could even be considered self-defense. Perhaps in a way I am even a victim of-"

Another swivel, and another "Ha!" The great baboon's laugh was so close and so strong that Edwin could even smell his breath (which carried the scent of orange peels, oddly. One would expect something fouler.) "See!" Minsc bellowed. "A simple solution, when Evil attempts to act smug and tricksy."

Edwin raised a finger, drawing in a breath as if to speak, but Minsc reared back and puffed himself up. _If I say anything I'll just get more berserker breath for my efforts won't I? Bah!_

Scowling and not bothering with another word, Edwin turned and marched on, passing beneath a gate and entering the citadel's outer yard. The tall, blocky building that served as the local inn and general store stood before them now, and though it was late there seemed to be an unusual amount of commotion just outside the door.

Horses, dusty travelers, and men dressed in the heavy armor of the fortress-guard all stood or scrambled about on the path before the inn, bathed in light from its windows and open doors, and obviously trying to sort themselves out. One of the guards was awkwardly holding the reins of a skittish white palfrey, shifting about like he really wanted to hand the horse over to someone else, and next to him some servant-looking fellow was struggling to unpack a massive bundle of luggage from the animal's back. A second servant was shouldering his way through the doorway, arms so full of gear that he swayed from side to side, and more horses shifted nearby, a pair of grooms from the citadel's stables just now rushing over to sooth them.

Some gruff, armored, man-at-arms type seemed to be directing the unpacking, and beside him stood a dark-skinned man of middle years, who was chatting in a low voice with the fellow who ran the inn. The stranger (Turmish? Edwin guessed he was Trumish) towered a good head-and-neck above the round little man, and he was the one who particularly drew Edwin's eye. His traveling clothes were dusty, but a cut or two above the rest around him: a fleece-lined longcoat, elegant and emerald in shade, over a vest that was lined with what Edwin guessed were rows and rows of pockets.

Careful disguised pockets no less. _Most interesting._

The Turmishman also wore a smart round cap and stood stiff-backed, with an air of easy command. _A mage_. Of that Edwin had no doubt. Those pockets hid spell components, and likely wands and scrolls as well. It was a bit more difficult to spot a spellcaster here than it would have been in Thay, especially with the odd fondness both the men and many of the women had for wearing pants, but Edwin had learned the signs well enough.

The fat innkeeper seemed to be laughing at something that only he found amusing, and when he reached out to pat the Turmishman on the shoulder the man recoiled reflexively. The Turmishman's armored subordinate stepped forward, hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Well it is!" the innkeeper exclaimed, ignoring the threat and pulling back to turn his attempt at a friendly gesture into a shrug. "As an elven arse. Can vouch fer the bunkhouse as well. Swept and scrubbed down near daily by the monks."

"I'm sure it will do," the Turmish mage stated, flat and indifferent. "And what about eveningfeast? We've had a long ride."

Again the innkeep laughed, patting his ample stomach. "Shouldn't be too late for a meal. Don't you worry. Likely there's still stew on, and we can grill you up some sandwiches anytime." (Edwin was pleased to hear that.) "Just make yer way in and talk to Lyda at the counter. She'll get you set up, and I'll make sure yer horses here are put to bed nice and cozy."

With that the Turmishman simply nodded and stepped past, making his way towards the yawning light of the tavern. The remaining servant and the armored man lingered, unpacking the last load from the horses.

As Edwin approached the inn the voice of his annoying shadow boomed from somewhere over his shoulder, making him cringe. "Still food you say, good Winthrop?"

The fat man nodded. "A bit. If ya hurry."

"Good! Minsc could eat a horse. And the red wizard's stomach has been rumbling as well."

_ Bah! _

"Course all these new mouths might eat me out of business soon enough," the innkeep grumbled, his humor finally fading. "And it would be nice to close up before it's too far after the eleventh bell. Oh. And though there's stew enough, I've some bad news for you two." And now his demeanor grew downright grave. "Afraid bedspace is now in short supply."

"I secured my room days ago," Edwin bristled. "These newcomers have no right-"

"You'll get a refund," the innkeep interrupted. "But I'm afraid you just don't swing near the weight in these parts that Rieltar Anchev does. Right high-up-noble gent. Owns a whole merchant coaster and then some. There was space in the bunkhouse for 'is servants at least, but I had to juggle some rooms around. 'specially with that Kestor merchant-fellow and his entourage already here."

"You…you cannot do this!" Edwin growled. "Not to the heir to the tharch of Surthay! (Granted there are roughly twenty people ahead of me by rite of succession, and tharchion is not _technically_ an inherited position, but still…) Need I remind you that I am payed up for the next tenday? And with the minted gold of House Odesseiron, no less! If I had known there would be such an _invasion_ I would have simply rented every room in your pathetic little inn for the next month!"

"A tempting offer," the fat fool answered, "but house Odor-what's-it don't compare to House Anchev around here. Afraid the best I can do for ya, if you don't want to rough it in the stables, is consolidate things." He turned to Minsc. "You and the lady are set up in a room with two beds. Plenty o' room for a stray redcoat wizard, I say."

Edwin's jaw fell, and for a breath or two he was actually speechless. "What?! Unacceptable! The…the very..." He glanced over at the oblivious Rashemi, then back to the inkneep. "Oh! I see now. The witch put you up to this didn't she? Her way of keeping me watched and under her thumb. Likely she does not want me to get a moment's rest either, sitting up in bed waiting for her knife to find my throat! Not to mention the thunderous snores from this barbarian could doubtless wake the dead-"

"Minsc does not snore," the Rashemi interrupted. "You know this, little wizard. We shared a tent. Now Dynaheir will sometimes snore a-"

"I'm sure the two of you can come up with more than enough annoying noises to drive me mad," Edwin protested. He raised a finger, took a deep breath, and prepared to rant and rave some more, but was cut off by a loud guffaw from the innkeep. Soon the fat little man had his head back, fists on his hips as more and more laughter erupted from his corpulent gut.

"Har har ha!" The buffoon reached out and startled Edwin with a smack on the shoulder, hard enough that the red wizard was a bit surprised when his protective contingency spells did not flare up.

"I was just kidding, lad," the rotund ball of annoyance eventually managed. "Thought that'd rile you up, but _hoo-boy!_ You should'a seen your face!"

"K-kidding?" Edwin's puzzled look swiftly shifted into a murderous glare. _If we were in Thay, little man!_

"Yup. Your room's still locked up tight. We're not _quite_ overflowing yet. It's getting a might bit crowded though."

Edwin's glare turned to the big, tattooed imbecile, who was just smiling along affably. _Yes. Crowded indeed._ Grumbling under his breath about fire elementals, ice devils, and sneaking explosive runes into a _certain_ innkeep's logbook, the red wizard pushed past them both and headed for the door.

* * *

Perhaps they should have been racing down the coast, horses lathered and worked near collapse, riding day and night. They were on an important mission for one of the grand dukes of Baldur's Gate after all. A personal mission as well: the man who seemed to be behind Ashura's troubles awaited her at the end of this road.

Yet Ashura set the pace, and she found herself guiding her stallion along at a brisk trot most of the time. The first night of the journey they had made camp –a proper one, with tents erected and a hearty meal warmed up over the fire– beneath the trees of the Sharp Teeth, still many miles north of the Friendly Arm. As they were packing up the next morning she found herself wondering at her hesitation – at the nameless dread that seemed to come with the thought of going home.

It didn't matter overmuch, she figured. They'd meet Rieltar eventually, whether they dithered or went at a gallop. Likely he'd be staying at Candlekeep for some time anyway.

Of course if Shar-Teel were here she would no doubt be insisting that they put the spur to the horses and get the bloody work done with. And if they went with a blistering pace like that Garrick and Imoen would –no doubt– start complaining about exhaustion and saddle-sore asses. As it was the others seemed content with the speed at which they traveled, the countryside rolling by and the usual songs (from Imoen and Garrick) and chatter that accompanied the long days on the road passing between them as they went. Imoen was especially fond of pointing out random, inane things beside the trail.

"Ooo! Is that a winterberry bush? Hey Xan, yer a gardener! Is that winterberry?"

"My family _kept_ a garden in Evereska. I never really…erm…but yes. It is winterberry."

"What's the elven word for winterberry?"

And on and on.

If they had ridden hard and nonstop they could have made the fortress inn within a day and a night, but it ended up taking nearly three, the stone walls and towers of the Friendly Arm rising up before them one midafternoon. And if they had really wanted to make a chase of it they would have kept riding, with plenty of daylight ahead of them.

But sod that. This could well be the last opportunity to wash the dust off, fill their bellies up, and sleep on soft beds before…whatever sort of confrontation lay ahead. Ashura was not going to pass that up. Rieltar Anchev could wait. Besides: arriving at the Arm this long before sunset meant an chance at an extended soak in the steambaths, before the autumn chill set in for the night. A fine diversion.

Passing beneath the portcullis and entering the fortress yard, Ashura found something reassuring about the familiar stone walls that now surrounded them. The chickens that always seemed to be wandering about near the front sheds clucked and scurried by the horse's hoofs, and two gnomish stable hands whose faces were vaguely familiar sat against the hitching posts further in, enjoying a pipe. Captain Joia was walking by on the gravel path ahead, armored and gruff as ever, and when she noticed the travelers she gave them all a wary look. _You people. Again._

Funny, for Ashura to find something reassuring and familiar about a place where people had tried to kill her. Twice. But of course someone had tried to kill her pretty much _everywhere_ she went.

* * *

"Candlekeep! I can't believe it!"

Garrick seemed his usual, enthusiastic-puppy self as he set his belongings down by the end table of the bedroom they had rented. It was a slow night at the Friendly Arm, and he and Ashura had actually managed to secure a place to themselves. A fine one at that: it was a bit more spacious than the rooms on the floor below, lined with ornate furniture and softened by flush, warm carpets.

"You'll have to excuse me," he went on, "if I bury myself in a big pile of books while we're there. I've gotta at least see the collection of ballads and epic poems." He grinned over at her. "And there's a whole section of the library devoted to folktales, right?"

Ashura nodded. "Go for it." An easy shrug shed the last of her chainmail. Frustrating to have to strap it on again _after_ her trip to the bathhouse, but she had learned her lesson the last time.

"That is, of course, when you don't need my help. To umm…assassinate the leader of the Iron Throne and such."

He put it so glibly that Ashura had to chuckle. It was easy to forget –the way Garrick looked and acted– that the boy had a bit of a mercenary streak to him. She shook her head. "We won't be doing that."

Garrick actually looked a bit confused. "We won't?"

"There are strict rules against aggression in the Keep. Probably why the meeting's being held there in the first place. No violence permitted, unless you're attacked, and there are special wards set up all over the place. Wards to keep certain spells from working. Wards to divine who the aggressor was if there's a fight. All sorts of things. They say it's powered by the spirit of some dead dragon in the crypts."

"Just kind of odd for _you_ of all people to shy away from violence…"

Ashura chuckled, stretching her arms above her head and digging her toes into the rug, boots and socks discarded. She was now dressed in her padded shirt and woolen tights alone. _Much better._ "Yeah. Well, the Gatewarden's a good man. Was always really nice to me." _Even when I probably didn't deserve it._ "I'm not disappointing the old man now."

Thinking on it, perhaps that was the source of her apprehension about going home. They had been sent on a mission to seek out an enemy, swords and spells at the ready, in a place that she still considered sacred. "Maybe we can set an ambush up when Rieltar leaves, like Eltan suggested. But until then we're going to be cautious."

Plopping down on the edge of the bed, Garrick kicked his own boots off. "Cautious. That'll be a change of pace." He breathed in deep, leaning back and smiling up at her, and when Ashura placed a hand on her hip and cocked her head he just gave her a curious look. A silent moment passed.

She cleared her throat. Then, when he _still_ didn't get the message, she spoke up. "Sooo. We finally have a room to ourselves…"

"Oh!" the bard exclaimed, eyes widening briefly before he hopped off the bed, stood up straight and glided towards her. "We do indeed, _sir_."

She chuckled and shook her head as his arms slipped beneath hers and he nuzzled close. _That absurd little pet-name._ But somehow he managed to use it with genuine affection, and she had given up on dissuading him. Might as well give up on trying to turn Garrick into a take-charge, assertive sort of man anyway. He just didn't have it in him.

So she turned her head and kissed him full and fierce on the mouth, leaning in and in. _And if I have to wear the pants…_

An internal little laugh came with that thought, since those pants were already starting to slip off, peeled down by playful fingers, bit by bit. His eager grip had her up on her toes, pressed together close as they could, and as he craned in and she leaned up she gave his lower lip a playful bite. He only stood a bit taller than her, and they had always fit together well enough like this.

Moments passed, clothes ruffled, and flushed cheeks brushed each other. Lips tilted and met and then parted briefly as shirts slid up and then fluttered to the floor. For some time still they stood like that, pressed together and each gentle movement answering the next, giddy breaths and the soft smack of their lips the only sound in the room. That, and then the rustle of her foot against the carpet as she kicked her pesky leggings away.

Eventually Ashura found herself spun around, tilting until her bare backside rested against the foot of the bed. One of her hands pushed at his shoulder and one of her feet left the floor, and Garrick took that for encouragement, dropping to his knees on the carpet.

Her eyes widened and she found herself chuckling once again, draping a leg over his shoulder and tilting her hips as he eagerly pressed his face between her thighs; no teasing or coyness or caution to it, just the full attention of his mouth and tongue against her sex. Joyful laughter escaped her lips and she reached down, mussing his hair with a gentle fist, petting and clinging and bending her knee more and more across his shoulder, laughing until there were tears at the edges of her eyes.

Those laughs were joined by giddy cries –by little shudders, and then by the rustling of the sheets as she eventually fell back across the bed and he pursued, lips and tongue working round and forward and side to side at the junction between her thighs. Then gentle fingers eventually joining in the game. His lapping tongue, his beckoning fingers, his rhythmic breath upon her; it all had her gasping in time with his motions, head bent back and scraping the bed as she climbed to a peak.

And –Sune bless him– he didn't relent even after she reached it.

Sometime later, when he seemed to have tired and she lay sprawled out and breathless on her back, Garrick slid and climbed a bit until he pressed against her. She twined strands of his hair through her fingers, gently petting, and moments later she found that he wasn't through being playful with his lips and fingers, now against her chest.

"Would be nice to just rent this room for the next month," Ashura found herself whispering to the silence and the lamplight. "Or two."

"Aww." A protest, but in a playful tone. "We have an adventure to be on. It might nearly be finished too. The dastardly leader of the conspiracy is in sight, and such." His lips went back to her breast.

Half a chuckle and half a gasp escaped her lips. Some time went by in silence, but when he tilted his head and nuzzled at a different spot she spoke again. "You crossed the bridge. The one the seer told you about."

"Well yeah. That was terrifying. Luckily nothing happened."

"Seemed like he had a pretty specific prophesy. You can't-"

"You know about prophesies huh? I could tell you some tales-"

"I do. Had men chanting them outside my window every morning, much as I tried to tune it out. Even helped a traveling scribe decipher one of them once."

"Ashura the scholar."

"He called me that too, and just as sarcastically." She snorted. "Unusual guy." Her fingers had slipped out of his hair, and now she traced the outline of his cheek, his head resting against her chest, one eye visible and bright and gleaming up at her. "You can't go back to Baldur's Gate," she told him, voice soft.

"Okay, then let's not go back. When we finish this mission you can send uh…a carrier pigeon to Eltan and…"

"You're going to have to leave."

She thought maybe there would be pouting. Or perhaps an _'After what I just did?'_ But his head just dipped forward, almost imperceptibly: a little nod against her. "Yeah. Would be a shame to go _just_ before I finish the story though. A big anticlimax. But you're probably right…"

"Figured that's what you were doing, with that journal you always have your nose in. How about I write you and tell you how the story ends? While you're safe behind the walls of Berdusk."

"A secondhand account? I guessss it could work. Although…sometimes a drastic drop in quality towards the end of a story is even worse than no ending at all." A little wriggling had him propped up above her, and he made to scoot back. "Suppose I'll be on my way then."

With a roll of her eyes Ashura gripped Garrick's shoulder and shoved him over, climbing atop him and pinning him down. He offered no resistance –only a chuckle. "Silly. You're not going _anywhere_ tonight."

"No?"

"No." Hands still gripping his shoulders, she slithered down. The faint trail of hair along his chest tickled her cheek as she kissed him there, and then against the taut surface of his abdomen. Her fingers raked down his body as well, tracing over ribs, and briefly her lips brushed above the pink and upraised skin of the scar across his stomach. The place where he had been opened up some months ago, right in front of her, and barely saved by healing magic. She passed over there quickly, lips slipping well beneath his navel.

"Hey now," he murmured. "You don't have to…" It was the most half-assed protest imaginable. A little, transparent pretense at chivalry.

Her fingers curled around his cock and she propped her chin up against the edge of his hip, grinning. "You said something like that the first time right? In the woods. And I said 'I don't, but I think you won't object.' Something like that." After Safana had teased the poor fellow and put the notion in Ashura's head. And on a whim she had showed him the real thing.

"Uh huh." He nodded.

Back then they had acted a bit like teenagers: no potions or lambskin sheaths around for the lowly prisoners of the bandits, so they had snuck off beneath the trees when they could and improvised with lips and fingers. Now there was a potent potion stowed away in Ashura's pack. It presented an interesting choice, with him here beneath her and well in hand. _All mine._

Of course they had all night ahead, to try whatever they wished. It was only the ninth bell, or thereabouts.

* * *

Ashura and Garrick guided their horses through the yard the next morning, side by side, eyes bleary, and no further words spoken on their need to part ways. It seemed that could wait.

The world was grey, the air heavy with a damp chill, and it didn't take long for the five companions to mount up and amble, single file, towards the fortress gate, their cloaks moist and bundled close about their shoulders. Sometime later it was Imoen who broke the foggy morning silence, a few minutes after they had crossed the dry moat and the drawbridge. "We're going home!" she announced, breath visible as she puffed out the giddy words. "Can't wait ta tell Puffguts all 'bout our adventures!"

Ashura made a noncommittal noise.

"Parda too. He's gonna gasp like an old maid when we tell 'em 'bout all the death-defying! Hmm." For a moment Imoen looked thoughtful, then she straightened and turned to Ashura, a twinkle of mischief in her eye. "Ooo! I know! Now, you weren't technically there when it happened, sure, but just play along when I tell Parda 'bout how the sewer-oni almost ate me! Okay?"

She let go of Trotty's reins, so as to better pantomime her story. "The oni was holding me up, squeezed me all in one hand, see, and he was about to bite my head off! Worse still, I was under some sort of _confusion_ spell at the time, so I was just sort of staring off and drooling, legs dangling like a ragdoll. But then…Oh! I know. You shouted something at the oni, and he shouted back, calling me a 'Tasty morsel.' And that all just made me extra confused. Suddenly I got thinking that the oni's fingers were big, juicy sausages, so I bit into one of 'em real hard, and the big galoot bellowed and dropped me."

Ashura just raised an incredulous eyebrow.

Once again Imoen paused to ponder, and naturally the story grew even more embellished from there. "Oh! And you have to tell Parda that before that happened you'd already seen the sewer-oni-monster bite some fair maiden's head clean off! It was this poor girl left there as a sacrifice. And I was going to be next! But then we slew the beast by…urm…by-"

"Do you _want_ to give Parda a heart attack?" Ashura asked.

Imoen bit her lip. "Mayyybe not. Mayyyybe we'll tone the story down. A smidge."

"Or we could just tell him that we've been touring the coast and leave it at that."

"Pfft! That's no fun!"

Ashura shot her friend a smirk. "Just a fun little tour. Following _Volo's Guide._ We checked out all the recommended taverns and landmarks, and avoided all the monsters. Hm." Now it was her turn to pause and ponder. "We tried digging for treasure at Firewine Bridge but didn't find any. And we danced at the Jovial Juggler and fought over this cute bard we met there." Garrick looked away. "We also went for a sail on the Low Lantern when it went out for the night. Best not to mention the hole that got blown in the side of the ship though."

"Ha! Or the hole in the Hall of Wonders. After the tour."

"Yeah. Best not to tell him about that last part either."

"Try and stop me! I'm still plannin' to entertain Puffguts and terrify Parda with our tales of adventure! First chance I get. Hm. So. What are _you_ gonna do when we get back home?"

Ashura didn't answer at first, looking ahead to the road as they trotted along. "Dunno," was all she eventually managed.

"Oh! I know! You should show Reevor how many pushups you can do now! You may not have noticed, but you've built up a little muscle since we left home. All that sword-swingin' and firewood choppin' and tryin' to impress Dorn, I guess."

Ashura just rolled her eyes. "First thing, I probably ought to tell them what happened to Gorion."

"Oh. Yeah." That sobered Imoen up. "You'd think they would know. Right?"

Ashura shrugged. "Hard to say. Didn't seem like news from the outside got into the fortress all that much when we were there. And it's not like the Watchers ever sent out patrols or anything. Candlekeep's a world all its own, really."

She frowned and fell silent again. Her father. A corpse left behind to rot in the woods, a few miles from his friends and his home, but likely forgotten. _Damn._ If she closed her eyes right now she could easily picture his face, bearded and weathered; balding and sad. He always seemed sad, in her memories. Always wearing a look of silent disappointment.

* * *

It was midmorn the next day when they came upon the obelisk at the crossroads, the Lion's Way to the west and the Coastway Road winding ever southward through the hills. Ashura tugged at her reins and pulled up near the foot of the monument, looking it up and down; perhaps waiting for some little blue goblins with oversized heads to come scampering out from behind the big rock. But all was silent.

"We stopping?" Imoen asked. "Pee break?"

"If you want." Ashura looked down and frowned at her fists. Clinched far too tight.

"Don't need to, but I guess I'll stretch my legs," Imoen announced, turning to hop down from her saddle. "Always a good time for that!"

Ashura wasn't really listening. Instead she sat her saddle and faced south. _Could just keep riding that way._ Winter was nearing, and she had never spent one in the warmer climes of Amn or Tethyr. Travelers from the south always mentioned the food from there, bragging of the spices and sauces and sweetened fruit, and complaining about the bland, mutton-eating north. She had always wanted to taste for herself.

They probably served that food with forks that weren't constantly breaking too, down in Amn and beyond. No iron crisis. No opaque mysteries. Probably no death warrant out on her, if she went far enough south.

A fancy of course. She turned and faced the west. The trees grew closer there, though she knew they would gradually thin. Knew that there was a clearing out there somewhere, where she'd left her father to rot amongst old barrow stones. _'Run child! I will hold them off.'_

She glanced back to her companions, who all stood beside their horses now. Looking at her. Waiting.

There just never seemed to be a choice, did there? Gorion was gone, and though this road and the citadel ahead were painful reminders of that (and of how she'd never been the scholar that he wanted in a daughter, and of how she'd been no warrior either, when it came to it, the night they had fled), the thing he'd want the most from her was to press on now.

Gorion was dead. His Harper friends too. They had planned to investigate this tangled web, and Rieltar seemed to be behind it. Seeing things through was the least they could do to honor the dead.

_ Would you imagine that, dad? Seems we're acting like heroes.  _ The old sage had always liked to feed her tales of heroism and adventure as a child. Stories of Dan Silvershield or Selia Fairsail saving the day. Perhaps he would be proud after all.

Though after this business was done, Ashura decided, a spending spree in the City of Coin would follow. The gold and gemstones they had collected over the past few months were begging to be spent, and Elthan's reward money would be a nice edition. Heroism and 'adventuring' could bugger off, once they had the funds and opportunity to retire and slip out of this life of constant danger.

_ "Chaos will be sown from their passage…" _

An involuntary shiver ran down her spine, and with a scowl Ashura just pressed her heels against her horse's ribs and started him forward. Heading home. There never really was a choice, was there?

For some reason Koveras' words came bubbling up to her, unbidden. _'I suppose I won't ever escape what I am. Nor will you. Take comfort in the fact that, at the least, you seem to enjoy it.'_

** End of Part Five **


	74. Fifth Interlude - Brother and Sister

Tarsakh 19, 1366 D.R.

Even in a place as cramped as Candlekeep there were nooks and corners were one could find a little privacy. The sheds in the outer circle that abutted Winthrop's inn were hardly ever visited, for instance, and there was a nice stretch of grass between the wall of the temple of Oghma and that of the outer fortress. Of course many of the avowed brothers and sisters found their sanctuary in the silence of the great library itself, but Ashura's favorite spot to be alone was up here upon the battlements. When she was feeling especially caged it helped to go to the top of the wall, where the open sky, the sea, and the fields seemed to stretch out infinitely. It also helped that the few Watchers who patrolled up here were always polite enough to give her space, never approaching to make idle chatter like some of the avowed would.

Sometimes she would walk the great loop when she came up here, but more often she would linger on the western wall, where the sheer cliffs plummeted a dizzying three-hundred feet down to the jagged rocks and waves. From that vantage the Sea of Swords stretched the full horizon: a still, unbroken band of blue beneath the endless march of clouds. Ashura liked to stand on her tiptoes and look down over the wall from that vantage, at the impossibly distant surf that beat upon the cliffs below. Then she would look _up_ to the great blue-white world that dwarfed her tiny home. There was a thrilling sense of vertigo and smallness to it, every single time.

It was the time of year when storms rolled in regularly off the sea, and today a fine wall of bruised blues and greasy black was gathering on the horizon. Little gusts of briny wind had already started to blow in, tickling her face and rustling her hair as she leaned against the crenel and waited for the first rumble of thunder. Or better still: the first flash of lightning. That was another thrill she enjoyed. Coming up here to storm-watch.

Paradoxical, perhaps, that the chill winds, growing chop, and approaching thunder often calmed her. Perhaps it was the reminder that, in the wider world, the waters could churn and the skies could swirl and things could be _changed._ You forget that sometimes, within the sterile, silent halls of the monastery.

The sound of feet shuffling across the stone called her attention away from the clouds and sea, and as Ashura turned towards the visitor she heard a faint chuckle. A man had just climbed the nearby steps: tall, broad, and dressed in a plain brown robe. His hood was thrown back to reveal a scarred, chestnut-brown face. His hair was a similar, cocoa shade, wavy and close-cut.

"Your father looked distraught as I passed him," the man noted as he sidled up towards Ashura, a bit of a sneer on his lips. What was this guy's name? Koveras? Some traveling scholar she had seen around recently. "Did you have some sort of fight with the old man and run up here to pout?"

With a huff Ashura turned back to the clouds and the sea. _Father sent him up here, didn't he?_ Or more likely it had been Karan. It would be just like Karan to press some friendly stranger into finding her and trying to talk her into coming back to give the geometry formulas one more try. Even after she had flung the book across his room. "What do you care?" she muttered.

"I don't," Koveras instantly replied, leaning forward and placing his hands against the merlon next to hers. "Caught the scent of rain as I was walking the grounds, so I came up here to watch the storm."

"Oh."

"What?" She could feel his probing look directed at her face. "You think the world revolves around you, little girl? Ha! Teenagers."

She didn't respond, and for a time there was silence as they both looked out to sea. Some minutes later she spoke again. "I came up here to watch the storm too."

"It is quite a sight, isn't it?" Koveras murmured. "When a good wall of thunderheads sweeps in. Whitecaps growing and lightning forking above the water. The world gets dark and the stone shakes beneath your feet with each rumble."

She nodded. "I pay my respects to Talos."

"Oh? Not one of the gods of knowledge for you? You felt some calling?"

She shrugged her shoulders faintly. Priests and seekers often speak of 'callings' from the gods, but she had never understood such things. Really, she had just found the storms that came through here a relief from the monotony. Lightning had just become more her god than the books.

"Ah. Youthful rebellion then?" he guessed. "Everyone has to pick a god. Might as well pick the one that makes daddy angry, eh?"

_ Grr. _ She'd never felt a calling or been particularly pious, but suddenly she found herself wishing some lightning or a blast of wind would sweep in _right_ now and knock that smug sneer off his face. The dark clouds just hung there though; no flashes yet. "What do you know?"

"A great deal. I am a scholar, after all."

"Strangest scholar I ever met."

"Really now? I'd venture that I'm more learned than some of the simpering little worms that live here. Like your Theodon. The man seems to have an encyclopedic knowledge of architecture and little else."

"Yeah. Theodon's a bit weird. But you're something different altogether. Like…" She searched for the words.

"What?" he growled impatiently.

"Scholars don't have scars."

"Sure they do."

She shook her head. "Some of them have acne scars, but not anything like that." She pointed. "That's a dueling scar."

"Oh?" Reaching up, Koveras slid a fingertip along the little gash just beneath his lower lip. "This? I got it when I was just nine years old, and not in a 'duel.' Just the usual business with thieves in a back alley in Scornubel. I had gotten my hands on a ruby ring, and was foolish enough to wear the gaudy thing in public."

"That wasn't the scar I was talking about."

"Oh?" His finger slid up and he tapped a small wedge of raised skin just at his hairline. "Got this a few years later, in the Gate. I was ordered to squeeze money out of some shopkeeper. The man had a lot more pride than I thought he did, and a hatchet hidden under his counter too. Taught me quite a lesson."

She glared at him. "That big curved scar on your cheek. That's the one I asked about, and you haven't told me where you got it."

"No. I haven't." He grinned.

"Bet it wasn't from falling off a ladder." When he said nothing in response she went on. "Doesn't matter. It's warriors that get scars like that. Scholars don't-"

"Don't what? Scholars don't enjoy making a living at a safe, boring trade? Meticulously translating and transcribing words from one page to another while being _extremely_ grateful that they're not, say, spending their nights wide awake waiting for the next ambush to come? The next knife from the dark? Scholars don't sit at their desks, happy in the knowledge that at most a mistake will result in them having to throw away a piece of parchment, rather than leaving them bleeding to death in some ditch?" He jabbed his chest with his thumb. "I may carry the scars and bearing of a different life, but let me assure you that I am a scholar now."

Eyes widened a bit after the sudden outburst, Ashura raised an open hand. "I get it. You had a chance and you chose a safer life."

"Exactly." Koveras' tone softened, and he gave her a mischievous look. "Or perhaps I'm just here to study how to better crush my enemies. You learn all sorts of interesting things in libraries." His eyes went back to the storm clouds.

She chuckled. "I've read all the combat manuals myself."

"Indeed. You fancy yourself a scholar of the sword?"

"Eh. A warrior, yeah. Been training, at least." He did not respond, and another long silence fell between them.

Eventually he spoke up. "When you're old enough are you going to join the armored monks I see guarding this fortress? Seems like the only place here for a warrior."

"I'm old enough now," she grumbled. "I'm seventeen. Too old maybe. Reevor's cadets are all little kids. Thirteen or thereabouts. They told me I should have joined up when I was that age, but I just wasn't sure. Now, if I tried, I'd be the most junior and have to take orders from a bunch of little boys."

"So you're not quite a warrior and not quite a scholar?"

"Bah. Says you. I can read and write in Chondathan, Auld Common, Iluski _and_ Alzhedo. And I know how to swing a sword. Happy to show you sometime." _And wipe that smug sneer off your face._

"Hm. Perhaps." The first flash of lightning lit the distant clouds, still too far away for the rumble of thunder to travel. Silence fell between them once again, and they both leaned against the merlons, watching the storm build. Sometime later a rumble made its way across the waters.

* * *

Tarsakh 22, 1366 D.R.

"Thanks for doing this," Ashura said, mounting the top stair and crossing the wall with her bundle held tight to her chest. "Reevor doesn't let me spar with the guys anymore. Not when he's around." She deepened her voice a bit, trying to mimic the old dwarf (though Imoen always did a far better job). "'This ain't no playground girlie. We're up to official Watcher work.'"

"He wants you to make a decision and join up," Koveras observed as he followed her onto the battlements.

"Obviously." She set her bundle down and began to unravel it.

"And it's fine," he added. "It was getting rather stuffy in the monastery." The big scribe (though he hardly looked the part today; his robe abandoned in favor of a loose, broad-shouldered tunic) twirled the blunted longsword he been carrying before planting it against the stone at his feet. "Wouldn't somewhere in yard be a better place for this though?" he asked. "That's a hard floor. And…" he pointed his blade towards the sea. "…that's a long drop."

"There's plenty of room to move around. And what better place for a battle than battlements?"

"You sound cheeky. Just don't overdo it. I wouldn't want to have to explain to your father how you got splattered at the bottom of that cliff."

"I won't try to dance on the merlons or anything. And don't worry, I won't throw you off the wall either." She bent down and picked up the two blunted short blades she had filched from the Watchers' weapon stand, giving each one a diagonal practice swing.

Koveras shook his head slightly, wearing his usual obnoxious little grin. "Two swords?" he asked.

"I can write just as well with my left hand as my right. Seemed natural."

He just shook his head a bit more. "Even if that's true, it's still the weapon-choice of an adolescent. 'One sword is good, so two must be better!' I bet you'll try to whirl around like a windmill too."

Glaring at her sparring partner, Ashura took a loose-limbed stance. "I know not to turn by back on the enemy."

"Learn that from some chapbook about the adventures of Drizzt?" His sword was pressed to the floor in front of him, hands at the crossguards and gripping the weapon like a crutch. Then, with a faint and casual shrug, Koveras half-lifted-and-half-tossed the training sword up in an arc –and then he was swinging at her!

A high slash, coming in over her guard, and Ashura had to raise her righthand blade up fast as she could to try and catch it –to redirect the blow that was coming down for her head.

But their swords never touched. He just flicked his around her awkward, backwards parry and turned his body with blinding speed. Realizing how open she had made herself, Ashura started to sidestep, but by then the longsword had already tapped her on the ribs. She flinched, remembering why the Watchers wore heavy padding in the training yard, but Koveras had slowed his swing at the last instant, the blunt hunk of steel just lightly brushing her.

"A touch," he said.

"Yeah," she muttered, and then launched herself forward, attempting a surprise attack of her own. Get close, nullify his reach, and _stab-stab-stab_!

With a grace you wouldn't expect from someone of his bulk Koveras simply shifted out of the way, dodging her lunge and stepping closer. _Her_ reach was nullified as he pressed in, grabbed the crossguard of her right sword, and simply ripped it from her hand. She tried to swing in with the reserve blade but he reposted, his longsword stopping just against her throat.

"And another." He stepped back, giving her some space, and with a grumbled snarl Ashura marched over and picked up her discarded weapon.

With the next pass their swords scraped and rang against each other a couple of times, but she soon went stumbling forward, propelled by a light blow. She whirled round, and on the _next_ pass her swords swung even faster, furiously hammering his.

Some minutes later Ashura found herself sitting hard on the battlement, backside stinging from the fall she had just taken and totally out of breath, her swords hanging loose in her hands. The blows that he had landed were light, but some of them were starting to smart. And of course she had not touched him _once_ with her blades.

Once again Koveras planted his longsword between some stones and leaned forward. He examined her critically and she glared back at him, eyes as sharp and steady as she could make them. Whenever she sparred with Hull these days she beat him, but she had seen the boy put other training Watchers in this position many times: beaten and flattened on their butts or their backs. And then Hull –that smug son-of-a-bitch– would lean in, grin, and let the mocking commence.

Well she was _not_ going to cry, the way most of those poor kids did. Ashura clinched her teeth and kept glaring.

But, for once, Koveras did not tease. "You can react faster," he stated. "I can see it. You were almost getting there, towards the end. You've got some…interesting moves, and the basics seem to have been drilled into you well enough by that dwarf in his playpen. But there are moments where you pause, if to _think_ on what to do next. That can't be allowed."

"Hmph."

"You need to make those forms you learned from the manuals reflexive. So that there is never a pause. Only unbroken action." And then he laughed. "Of course it may be better still to stick to the books. A middling scribe will live a lot longer than a middling warrior."

She had regained her breath fully now, and rising to her feet proved less painful than she had expected. As she stood a cold wind rolled in off the sea, further stirring her already ruffled hair. Right arm stretching out, she pointed her sword at the big man once again. "I'm not burying my nose in any books today. So: more practice? Or do you need to get back to _your_ studies?"

The grin on his face only broadened. "I could spare a few more minutes."

* * *

Tarsakh 23, 1366 D.R

"And you're certain that it really is a play on words, even in Old Thorass?" he asked the girl, who was seated across the study table from him.

"Definitely. _Tutor_ means 'to guard,' or ward, and _tutella_ means _a_ ward. Or guard. Or protection. ' _Tutor tutella_.' 'The warded ward.' Same in either language." Ashura twisted her lips a bit. "Sounds like gibberish either way. 'The guarded guard.' What does that actually mean?"

Koveras chuckled and sat back in his chair. "Gibberish. Yes. Prophesies often are."

The girl leaned back as well, giving the books and papers spread out before her a thoughtful look. "It could also mean 'ward' in the sense of someone who's _being_ protected. Like how they're always calling me 'Gorion's ward.'"

Koveras cocked his head. "The sage is not your real father?" There was little family resemblance to be seen, certainly, but such things were hard to judge when the father was grey and bearded.

The girl's humor faded, those sneering lips of hers pressed together tightly. She shook her head. "Nope. I don't know who my parents are."

"Ah. I was orphaned as well." _Twice._ No recollection of the first time, but he remembered the second time well. Mistress Alianna burned to dust before him. Fire and explosions. The temple crumbling all around them.

And the gray-haired Harper mage.

Koveras hadn't really examined the girl closely before, but now, as he did, there seemed to be something familiar about her features that he couldn't quite place. The ice-blue to her eyes, and that sharp little nose. So as not to stare, he turned back to his books. "That should be all I need today."

"Alright." She stood and brushed her woolen frock out –grey today, instead of black. She always seemed to dress as simply as possible, almost a monk in her own right. Or at least someone who put very little thought into her appearance. The resident tomboy. "And remember what you said. In exchange for my scholarly assistance…"

He chuckled. "If you wish another beating, I suppose I can oblige. Tomorrow."

As the girl walked off Koveras returned to his books, time and the script before him blurring by. There was much to ponder. Was it just an accident of words that made some of these blasted prophesies so ambiguous, or was it intentional? How hard would it have been for Alaundo to simply say that Bhaal had laid out a plan to return? _Or_ that one of Bhaal's children was destined to ascend to the Throne of Blood? As things were actually written –in either the original Thorass or the translations– it could easily be interpreted either way.

Some instinct suddenly drew Koveras up and away from the pages. The sense (correctly) that he was being watched.

The grey eyes of the stern old Harper met his, the old man having slipped in between the bookshelves across from him. Koveras opened his mouth to speak but Gorion beat him to it. "The prophesies, I see? Suppose there's no better place to make a study of them than here."

A nod. "It's what I came here for, exclusively." Koveras stated it all carefully. "Your daughter has been most helpful, by the way. She possess skills with the original language which I lack, and knows her way around all the prophesies and commentaries."

The old man inclined his head, a hint of a smile beneath his sharp grey beard. "She's a lot smarter than she thinks, and she's soaked up a lot here…"

"Despite the rebellious streak," Koveras filled in what the old man seemed to be implying. "A good kid."

Gorion ignored the complement, taking a closer step and cocking his head at the choice of books laid out on the desk. "Looks like a _very_ exclusive study that you're making. I never see anything but texts relating to _Volume IX_ of Alaundo's works on this desk. The death of Bhaal is your chief interest?"

Despite himself Koveras felt his heart lurch a bit, and he put all of his will into keeping his face impassive and vaguely friendly. Rather than trying to deny anything he launching into a speech that he had rehearsed many times in his head. "Supposedly we are nearing the time when the children of Bhaal will…converge? Isn't that how they put it? _That_ may be one of the most cataclysmic events of our age, and there is so little scholarly consensus on it. My patron is quite worried about the potential danger."

He expected for Gorion to ask about that patron, and had a carefully worded lie ready, but instead the sage just nodded thoughtfully, hands clasped behind his back. "Ah. Good luck to you then." And with that, and a swish of his grey robes, the Harper turned and walked away.

Several moments passed before Koveras realized that he was holding in a breath. He released it carefully, feeling foolish. Still, the Harper was one that he had to treat with the utmost caution. Those sharp little eyes missed little. Not to mention that, despite all the years and training and tests that had passed since then, it was still intimidating to face the man who had turned Mistress Alianna to dust.

* * *

Tarsakh 25, 1366 D.R

"Now that looks right on you," Ashura teased.

Koveras spread out his arms and examined the quilted sleeves of the steel-lined gambeson he had dressed in, then shook his head. The girl wore a similar outfit: padded training armor along with boots and an iron half helm. They had also chosen softer ground for their sparring match today, on the grass and dirt by the outer wall of the citadel, near the little row of shrines devoted to the lesser gods of knowledge and invention.

It seemed the girl had picked the spot because it saw little foot traffic, but they had attracted a small audience anyway. The bubbly, red-haired brat who wore pastels and worked at the inn sat on a nearby fence, eating an apple, and when Koveras glanced at her she gave him an enthusiastic wave. There was a young man dressed in the robes of an initiate next to the brat, eyes low and glowering.

He turned back to his sparring partner. "Right on me?" he asked.

"You're just never going to look the part of a scribe. Even in one of those robes. No offence."

"It's not about how you look, silly girl. There's simply _nothing_ to being a scribe beyond having the patience to sit still, reading and _scribing._ Robes are comfortable outfits for such activities." He tapped his chest. "And this armor is a comfortable outfit for this one. Only lesser men limit themselves to playing a single roll." With a _whoosh_ he took a practice swing with his longsword, limbs loose and limber.

"Alright. Alright. Look, it's just real rare for a trained, experienced warrior to pass through here. And protest all you want, but you're definitely one of them." She held her own practice swords up. "I want to learn."

Suddenly he planted his blade into the earth and straightened his posture, the dueling stance abandoned. "And suppose that I no longer wish to teach you?"

She recoiled slightly, taken aback. "Uh. Well, we got all of this equipment out already. And last time you seemed to enjoy sparring. Uhm…sorry if I said something that-"

"Suppose," he interrupted, "that I took a solemn vow to never draw a blade again, when I left my life of violence behind. And now I've realized that even drawing a sword in the training yard was a mistake. That even _teaching_ someone in the ways of bloodshed may be as bad as actually fighting, for the same cycle of violence, pain, and misery could result from it."

"Hey! I'm not looking to murder anyone. It's just sparring." She looked him up and down, incredulous. "Uh. Are you really some avowed of Ilmater or something? You hardly seem…"

He laughed and yanked his blade from the dirt, hefting it up to point for a moment at the clear blue sky. "I'm not." The sword tilted back and came to rest on his shoulder. "You're right about me. We can't ever escape who we are, now can we? And this armor and blade are far more comfortable for me than my robe and quill."

Shaking her head, the girl slipped into a low stance –knees bent, blades ready, one foot forward and the other pointed out. "Then will you cut the philosophical bullshit and take a swing already?"

Koveras roared out another laugh and at the same time launched himself forward, blade arcing down. It cut through air as she sidestepped, then clinked against her sword as he corrected and she parried. Seemed she had taken his lessons to heart: there was far less hesitation as she slipped from one form to the next and the next. Smooth and fluid, and she even bent, swayed, and improvised a bit more than before.

Of course it was just a moment more before he landed the first blow –a backhand slash to the stomach– and sent her stumbling backwards a step. She glared, adjusted, and lunged as soon as she could, retaliating.

_ Good. I may just get a real morning's workout this time. _

* * *

_ 'The Warded Ward, ensconced in a fortress of books; this Child shall be the last of the siblings to rouse, but when she does a tide of blood shall roll in to soak the coast.'  _ There were many passages to puzzle over, but Koveras found himself coming back to that one again and again. Glancing up from the books and scrolls laid out before him, he gave the girl on the other side of the desk a pondering look.

_ What  _ was so familiar about her features? The eyes and hair, especially.

She was studying a worn tome of her own (arithmetic lessons? Or perhaps she was reading one of those adventure stories again), waiting to help him when next he ran into a problem with archaic Thorass. There were plenty of modern translations for Alaundo's works, of course, and Koveras mostly studied those, along with the many commentaries. But knowledge of that dead tongue had helped with a lot of the finer questions.

"When did you lose your family?" he asked, suddenly, breaking the silence blunt and plain.

She looked up from her book, a little curious, though hardly offended. "Dunno. My first memories are of Candlekeep. Dad says I was about...three? Yeah, three when he found me and took me here."

"Found you where?"

"Not sure." She frowned. "He never talks about that." Then she stuck her nose back in the book.

"Hmm." His eyes returned to the pages spread out before him as well, though he could no longer focus upon the words. He had probably been about three years old as well when he was taken to a monastery, though a very different sort. The girl's earliest memories were likely of this very chamber: the rustle of pages, the shuffling of robes, and that eternal, droning chant. Whereas the first things Koveras could recall were half-lit passageways in that cold and hidden temple, musty smelling and lined with bones…

He shut the book that rested between his palms, wincing slightly at the echo it made through the silent halls. Then he stood.

She looked up. "Going to get some eveningfeast?"

It was about that time wasn't it? "Yes." He nodded, then turned away and began towards the stairway at the center of the great library. "Don't think I'll need any further help from you tonight." He took a few more steps, then stopping briefly, adding: "And thank you for your assistance."

"Sure thing."

He made his way through the labyrinth of book stacks and shelves, hurrying down the steps. Some food would be welcome, now that he thought about it. Hopefully there was something hot and hearty simmering in Winthrop's pot already.

Rounding a row of bookshelves on the ground floor of the monastery, Koveras nearly plowed into a shorter man who had stepped in his way. "Excuse me," he muttered.

"And why should I?" the young man in front of him snapped, not yielding at all and glaring up sharply. The lad's hair was unruly, face round and boyish, and he was dressed in the simple black robe of a junior monk. The same boy, Koveras realized, who had been watching the little sparring match earlier that day, and he seemed to recall seeing this boy together with the red-haired brat and the black-haired one a few other times around the monastery. Childhood friends or whatnot.

Before he even thought about it Koveras had clenched his fists and turned his body subtly, knees bent and ready to spring. The boy was all puffed up, but standing wide open. A surprise strike would be simple enough to launch.

But this was no alley in Scornubel. Koveras made himself draw in a deep breath instead of punching the boy. "Or don't excuse me," he growled. "I really don't care."

"Yeah. You seem like the type not to care."

"What?"

"I've seen that you're spending a lot of time with Ash. She's already had her heart broken recently. She doesn't need some stranger riding in here, seducing her, and-"

"What!?" Koveras cringed at how loudly he had snarled, the shocked exclamation echoing through the library. From there he just groaned and rubbed his forehead. _Bloody teenagers._ Lowering his voice, he spoke on. "I've no interest in some adolescent little tomboy. Rest assured." With that he shouldered the young monk aside and walked on.

"I mean it," the boy hissed at his back. "I won't let you hurt her!"

"Good for you," Koveras muttered, marching forward, now even more eager to be rid of this stuffy place and enjoy a decent evening's meal. _The very thought._ She was a kid! And even if they _were_ of an age the girl was _far_ too mannish for his tastes.

But what else could one expect from a place like this? No doubt the tightknit little community of monks here were as gossipy as a knitting circle, prattling on and speculating whenever _anyone_ spent any sort of time together. Granted, he and the little boyish brat had struck up an instant rapport, of sorts. But it was more like that of…

He stopped suddenly, the echoes of his footfalls hanging briefly in the air around him. Stopped and stood there a long time, on the gleaming marble, just five paces from the doors of the great library. _More like that of a brother and his long-lost little sister..._

He turned it over and over in his mind, trying to see if it really all lined up. It had been fourteen years since the fall of the temple, hadn't it? And if what the girl had said (offhandedly) was accurate then that would have been about the same time that she had been brought here by the Harper mage. _Hmm._ And those features of hers. Distinctive, ice-blue eyes and jet-black hair, just like Mistress Alianna's.

Could it really be? And if so, then that line in the prophesy…

Well, it was certainly something to ponder.

* * *

Tarsakh 26, 1366 D.R

Today they sparred beneath the little maple tree near the cow pens, dust devils stirring wherever their boots tapped the dry earth. Steel scraped against steel, one heavy blow followed the next, and although they were sheltered behind the castle walls the cold sea wind found its way in, somehow, and stirred the leaves above them. Again they wore half helms and quilted gambesons to protect from broken bones and simulate the weight of true, armored combat.

A good thing too. Koveras was swinging a lot harder than he had in their earlier sessions.

Ashura let out a yelp and scurried back when a particularly forceful parry sent a jolt through her arm. His follow-up swing had her ducking and rolling, the wind of his passing blade rustling the disheveled hair that had started to hang at the edges of her helm. If that blow had hit it would have _hurt!_

"Nice," she muttered. And she meant it. This was invigorating: pulse pounding, breath hitching, arms jarred by each blow as she raced to keep up. Almost like a real fight.

He replied with a grunted "Ha!" and another sweep of his sword. She bobbed in under the slash as it receded, moving quick and low and skipping along at his left.

He blocked her attack with a bend of his arm, instantly switching to a downward, diagonal guard. _That_ should have left the perfect opening for her reserve blade to stab in and catch him, but the bastard anticipated her move and stepped out of the way, turning the whole motion into yet another sweeping slash.

Both her swords came up to hold back the blow, and yet she still stumbled back. She took a few extra steps, giving a little ground, and thankfully he didn't pursue, taking a deep breath instead.

The maple leaves above them rustled, an exceptionally strong guest sweeping in.

"You should probably stick to the books," Koveras taunted. "Safer to be a middling scribe than a middling warrior."

"I can fight," Ashura stated levelly.

She was used to his insults, but something seemed off this morning. He wasn't wearing the usual sneer that she had grown accustomed too, face hard as stone instead. "You've never fought anything in your entire life, little girl," Koveras went on. "Sheltered in this place."

Some snarling retorts came to mind, but she bit them down. Saying 'I'll show you!' seemed rather hollow. Better to just show.

Again she charged in low, feinted one way, then turned and struck from another. His blade repelled hers, she passed him, forced him to pivot –forced him to race. _I'm faster. I know I can be faster!_ Blades locked, and then the world was a blur, her jaw turning with a blind flash of pain and another flash following near instantly, at the back of her leg. The ground was ripped out from under her.

Dirt scraped her back and then her legs were wheeling, like an upended turtle. A shadow loomed and a blade flashed in the morning light high above her, plummeting. A frantic swivel and she was rolling – rolling – rolling away from the deep _thunk_ and the cloud of dust where the sword struck. Struck right where she had just been.

She flew -both onto her feet and forward- all at once. _Retaliate! Retaliate!_

Clangs and grunts and snarls, and then she found that she had stumbled back, both blades up in a guard. He had stepped back too. A pause for breath. And more taunting.

"You don't even know what fighting is. All you have is a head full of adventure stories and romantic notions. You've never struggled. Never slept on the hard ground, or spent days without sleep because you were being _hunted_. You've never felt the sting of real, mortal pain coupled with the fear that this was it: this knife in my side will be how I _end!_ " Again he lurched forward with an overhead sweep, a strength behind the blows that threatened to numb Ashura's arms. Or break them.

Turning and rolling her shoulders, she managed to redirect the slash and step aside. Then she did that again. And yet again, avoiding the full force of the blow and slipping around him like a snake.

He kept taunting, blade a blur as he forced her to slide and back up over and over. "You're no warrior. You've no idea what it means to claw and squirm your way out of death's grip. And to kill." Steel screeched again, a viscous slash just barely nudged aside. "That's what being a warrior really means, little girl! All that it means! Desperately putting down a threat. Then learning that you must _become_ the threat! Stamp anything that might kill you down before it has a chance to attack. And if you don't, you _end!_ "

His blade whistled over her head as she ducked and then sprang. There were no retorts on her lips. Or even in her mind.

Her only thought: _I'll show you!_ She caught his backswing, hilts clinking together, her other sword sweeping up full-strength to stab his unprotected belly. _I'll show you! I can fight! I can kill!_

The long arm of his offhand came whipping in; snatched her wrist and turned the blade aside, then tried to wrench the sword from her hand. She twisted and struggled against the grip, holding on hard this time and refusing to release. Somewhere in the grappling her foot hooked behind his heel and she yanked.

He stumbled a step, their locked swords scrapping and jostling. He kept his feet and then he kicked in retaliation. At the same time her aching wrist was suddenly free, and right when she yanked her hardest too! Sudden vertigo, and the world tilting all around her, the ground rushing up again to catch her as she flopped onto her back.

His sword was already whistling and rising above his head, his feet braced wide apart as he loomed above her. The blade glinted in the morning light, as if suspended, but she knew he was putting all his strength into these swings.

Would the blunted steel dent her helm when it finally struck her? Would it cave her skull in?

She glared up at the looming blade. Knees bent and elbows pressed against the earth, she forced herself to slide and scramble. _I'll show you! I can fight!_ Slipping across the dirt and the dewy patches of grass, she slid between his feet and made his reach an awkward thing. Instead of her head his sword struck dirt.

_ I can kill! _

Righthand and lefthand blades both lashed up and out, and there was a grunt of surprise and pain from Koveras as they struck each of his thighs. In a blur of motion he slipped backwards and out of her reach, hefting his sword with him.

She glared up at him, their eyes met, and through some trick of the light there almost seemed to be a golden flash in his eyes as he looked down, the branches above them shaking with the wind and all the tiny leaf-shadows dancing across his stone-hard face.

He stood still, and she lay there, tense and ready to spring. Then he glanced down to where he had been struck by her little practice swords, and the hard look on his face became bafflement, then mirth. A laugh escaped his lips, low and rumbling. "A touch."

Ashura nodded up at him. "A touch for me. Or maybe that counts as two?"

"One. But a good one. The thighs are a smart place to cut. Vital arteries there, and sometimes armor leaves them unprotected."

She couldn't help but smile at the praise, pushing with her elbows to prop herself up more. Then, slowly, she sat and began to stand. _Ouch!_ Aches were starting to catch up with her, and there was a metallic taste of blood in her mouth. Her lower lip felt a bit swollen too. When he offered a hand she took it and in a rush she was up and on her feet. "Well fought," she said.

Eyes shifting to the sword in his hand, Koveras _almost_ looked embarrassed. "Thanks." He swiftly straightened.

Ashura glanced around as she brushed herself off and winched at all the little pains. Imoen and Shistal were sitting on the grass nearby, their mouths both gaping and their eyes wide with horror. Koveras seemed to notice too. "Perhaps I got a bit carried away there," he conceded. "These arms are trained to kill, not nursemaid someone through a sparring match."

He chuckled and she shrugged. "That was close to what a real duel is like, huh?" she asked. "Guess that's the best way to learn."

Koveras nodded. "And how I'm inclined to fight. I suppose I won't ever escape what I am. Nor will you. Take comfort in the fact, at least, that you seem to enjoy it."

She smiled, and her lips felt numb and wet. Must have been a bloody, funny-looking grin.

_ Enjoy it? Fighting _ ? She supposed she did. "And what am I?" she asked. _Going to admit that I'm a warrior now? Or that I can at least become one?_

But he didn't say anything, and the pondering look he gave her had her wondering if he had meant something else entirely.

* * *

Tarsakh 27, 1366 D.R

_ There can be no doubt. _

With a final clap that reverberated through the halls of the great library Koveras shut the book before him. Two nearby readers who were hunched over their slanted desks both looked up and gave him nervous glances. Gazelles disturbed from their grazing, wondering if a predator was upon them. Wondering if it was time to run.

He paid them little mind, looking instead to the broad, calloused hands that held the covers of _The Prophesies of Alaundo the Wise, Volume IX_ together. Three scars marred the right hand, two at either side of the middle knuckle and another little triangular slice by the joint of the third finger.

The girl had been quite right. These hands had never been meant to gently turn the pages of some ancient, fragile tome. Nor to sow, nor bind, nor build. They were hands _made_ to kill. A purpose bred into their bones. Or at least hammered into them by the rituals in that secret temple (…early childhood memories came to him: of standing at Master Koseth's foot by the great stone slab, obediently fetching the old man's tools and watching as he dissected the dead; blood and organs separated for spell components and bones cleaned and polished for display…) and then on the streets of Scornabul. And under the tutelage of his adopted father, of course.

Looking back it seemed that the Curse had made him what he was today, more than anything else. The Curse that was laid out plainly in the texts he had spent the last tenday studying. Bhaal's children could not avoid violence. They drew it to themselves like a loadstone.

If one of the Children so much as walked between two houses then the feud that had been building between the neighbors would erupt at that very moment. Should one of the Children visit a village that had known peace for decades it would happen to be that day that a hoard of orcs or ogres would choose to launch a raid. Koveras had lived that Curse, from the doom of the secret temple to the journey through the wilderness in the shadow of the drow girl (until she had tried to kill him), then through Scornubel and Baldur's Gate.

And now he lived it on his bloody road to power. Conflict everywhere, and no escape.

And the girl was just like him. A sister. There could be no doubt. Mistress Alianna's own daughter, brought to this monastery by the Harper mage around the same time that the temple fell. There was no chance for coincidence here: she was the ward in the fortress of books, spoken of by Alaundo himself.

She was just like him, except it seemed she had never felt the Curse as he had. That was a curiosity. There was the line about how she would be the last of the Children to awaken, though the more he mulled it over the more it seemed to Koveras that it was this _place_ itself that had sheltered the girl. Candlekeep was well warded, in both overt and subtle ways, a fortress blessed by the gods of knowledge to be an eternal sanctum for the world's lore. It was even written into Alaundo's prophesies: Candlekeep would never be sacked. No raiders would ever carry off any of the treasures stored here, and not a single page of parchment would burn, even after the world lost any need for the knowledge stored here.

Gorion had chosen the hiding place for his fosterling well. How it must irk the old sage, then, that his daughter yearned so much for violence. That she was always pacing these hallowed halls when she was meant to be studying, and that she challenged every warrior who passed through the Keep to a sparring match. Volatile, despite all of her father's precautions.

The Bhaalspawn were cursed to draw and stoke violence, and it had been clever to hide one away in a place where there was simply no tender to stoke. _At least until I arrived._

Sarevok stood and pushed away from the desk, leaving the pile of books and scrolls behind. Some monk could fuss over the mess. He would not be coming back. The maze of shelves and the hunched, robed figures all about passed by in a blur as he marched through the library, absentmindedly slipping past every obstacle.

For fourteen years that spoiled little girl had been sheltered here. Fourteen years with a soft bed and a full belly and a loving father. She had never slept on the cold, hard ground. Had never wandered abandoned and alone through the wilderness. Had never lain, bleeding and sore and too hurt and tired and starved to move, against a row of rain barrels in the Caravan City, robbed of all but the rags on her back and wondering if this would be her last night on Toril. She had never seen all that she had known and cared for taken away, again and again (…the temple…the drow girl's betrayal at the cabin…that stupid, gaudy ring he had dared to show off to Khent…his mother and the brief tenderness she had shown him, before Rieltar had come in and wound the garrote rope round and round her neck, his eyes locking with Sarevok's as he lectured and tried to impart his stupid lesson while mother's her eyes bulged in her skull and her face turned cherry red…)

That spoiled, soft, coddled little brat…

Bursting through the great double doors at the front of the monastery, Sarevok paused in the bright morning light for a moment. The gardens below were starting to bloom; mostly white flowers with gold and violet mixed in here and there, the beds brimming with foliage and color around the neat row of gurgling fountains. He gave it all a sweep of his eyes, and stood there for a time.

_ Hmm.  _ Try as he might, he couldn't really dredge up all that much hatred for the girl. The Harpers had likely just snatched up the one Bhaalspawn they had found in the chaos, and it could have just as easily been him. Perhaps he would have been happier here, raised by the old man who had killed Alianna, but then Sarevok would not be the man that he was today –forged and tempered and blooded.

_ Imagine it!  _ He chuckled to himself. Being locked away from the world in this sterile place, playing with toy swords like the girl had, and never allowed to be honed into the _truest_ of his father's children. In the end their fates had been for the best. Sarevok was the greatest between them. And he would be the greatest among _all_ the children.

As suddenly as he had stopped he began to walk again, feet carrying him down the steps, as if of their own volition. There was no need for malice. This was just business, much like the tasks his adopted father often sent him on. And this was a task he could take far more pride in. His true father's work, and an achievement far beyond the petty works of men.

Just a shame that he had not put the puzzle together earlier. It would have been so simple, when they were alone upon the battlements days ago, to fling the girl over the edge and down to the rocks. _'I will be the last. And you will go first.'_

No destination in mind, he simply let his feet carry him, passing by men and women in simple robes as they bent over the flowerbeds and pulled weeds. Beyond them, in a little circle on the grass, the chanters solemnly stood and recited their endless cantos.

" _The Lord of Murder shall perish, but in his doom he shall…"_

Of course they would be at that verse just now. Of course.

His pace quickened, strides long and determined. More faces and figures blurred past as Sarevok marched and marched, not sparing them a glance. He stepped through one of the gates of the inner wall, banked left without pause, and made his way past the row of little shrines devoted to the lesser gods of knowledge.

And there she was, walking along the same dirt path ahead of him, black hair and stiff profile clear in the light. She was walking with a similar sense of determination, arms clutching a bundle of linens against her chest. Seemed she was delivering them to the bunkhouse. Not noticing as Sarevok casually approached from behind, the girl nudged the cabin's door open with her foot and wriggled on through the doorway, vanishing.

It had taken no effort to find her; a matter of instinct. Of destiny. Now was the time. He would make this quick. Then leave this place and never look back.

_ Hm.  _ His hands would probably work best, but that didn't feel right. There was a dirk hidden beneath a fold in his robe, and as he neared the door Sarevok found one of his hands resting there. It would be fitting: a weapon like the daggers of bone used at the altar in that ancient temple. And in his dreams. A sacrifice –the first of many– to pave the path for a new Lord of Murder.

Swift and silent, Sarevok stepped up to the bunkhouse door, one hand reaching for the dirk, the other for the door itself, open palmed…

Light flashed before him and he halted suddenly, blinking. As if awakened from a dream.

The flash resolved into a faint series of runic marks, circling round and round the handle of the bunkhouse door. Hand still out and hovering close to the wood, Sarevok looked over, eyes instantly alighting on the sharp face of the old Harper mage, who stood about fifteen paces away. Gorion just glared back in silence, arms crossed at his chest.

Sarevok withdrew his hand. No reason to bother with the door. He was fairly sure that he recognized the _locking_ spell, and at the least he knew it for a ward. _The Warded Ward. Ensconced in her fortress of books._ He turned to face the Harper fully and met his cold, narrow eyes. Had Gorion somehow known all along, or had he just now put together who and what he was?

No matter. Sarevok simply turned on his heel and began to walk the other way, feeling those eyes continue to bore into his back. No doubt the mage was sorely tempted to send a spell or two flying his way, but they both knew how that would look, here in this place where no violence was permitted and divinations were always used to determine the aggressor and punish accordingly.

He had traveled light, and well within the hour he would be riding from the keep. Though Sarevok would not forget the old Harper. Or the girl either. His little sister.

And most of all he would not forget the prophesy, and how of all the Children this girl seemed to have (if he had read things right) been given a place of note in it. That meant that she might be the most trouble among all his siblings, preposterous as that seemed, on his path to the Throne.


	75. Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Ulraunt is his usual, dickish self

** Part Six – Bhaalspawn **

_ "In at least some small manner all parents will ruin their children and all children will fail their parents."  _ –Ertubas, a Chessentan philosopher

* * *

Uktar 23, 1368 D.R.

So many hours spent in tedium, pouring over ancient accounts and burial records of the Shoon Imperium. So many words and figures passing –and blurring– before his eyes that Edwin had to clench them shut more and more; had to keep his chin down lest his gaze and then his mind begin to wander. It all made for quite a bleary afternoon, but it also _all_ evaporated in an instant when a single name jumped out at him, there upon the unfurled scroll.

His heart skipped a beat, and then he turned to one of his open books, flipping it back a few pages and hastily scanning the lines with a fingernail. _Now where…yes! The same name!_ "Ah ha!" Edwin whispered sharply, fingertip tapping the passage before him. But the instant that triumphant hiss had passed his lips he regretted it.

Already too late. He heard the rustle of the witch's dress as she rose and slipped around the table they had been sharing. _Blast!_ Bending over his book, Edwin pondered slamming the covers shut ( _No, too conspicuous_ ) or perhaps explaining that one of the random words he had stumbled upon was simply funny to a speaker of Mulhorandi ( _Yes, that could wor-_ )

His posture stiffened and his eyes went wide when he felt a _very_ generous bosom press against his shoulders. A lock of dark, wavy hair tickled his cheek as the witch leaned in, peering over his head. "Thou hast made a discovery then?" she asked in a casual tone. She smelled faintly of lavender.

The book closed with a resonant _wump._ "Nothing of consequence," Edwin lied. He turned slightly ( _Act casual!_ ) and then found himself instinctively leaning away from her serene (and uncomfortably close) face.

Her brow was furrowed with mock-confusion. "Oh?" she teased. "Then the artifact that fascinates thee so is _not_ ensconced in a tomb beneath the Amnish capitol? That _is_ the conclusion one would draw from reading the passages that were opened."

Gritting his teeth, Edwin shimmied off the chair and away from the witch, shooting to his feet. "So," he stated, trying to regain some sense of control, "it's a race to Athkatla then? This was your plan all along? Duping me into uncovering the Nether Scroll's location for you? (Very clever.)"

Dynaheir just let out a haughty chuckle and crossed her arms beneath her ample chest ( _Blast! She_ wants _to draw your eyes there doesn't she? Both with her body language and the openness of those dresses she always wears. Look anywhere else, you fool! And think of Thayvian tax laws and algebra problems and…_ )

"I've no intent to journey south," the witch stated calmly. "I swear that, by the Three. Thine quest for the scroll is thine own."

"That simply makes no sense," Edwin countered. "Why, in all the heavens, hells, and everywhere in between, would you help me –your avowed enemy– secure any sort of power?"

Infuriatingly, she smiled her knowing smile and took a closer step. "Tis simple enough. It suits mine interests for thee to leave in search of something that does _not_ involve mine imminent demise." Reaching out, she gently placed a hand upon his shoulder, and this time Edwin stood firm. She obviously wanted him to cringe away, and thus he would not. "And I must admit that I enjoy placing thee upon a peaceful path. One of study and discovery, rather than conquest."

"Ah. I take it I am about to receive the _'I see the good in you'_ speech?"

She smiled up at him. "I shall not go that far. Thy devilishness has a certain sort of charm, after all." And with that she _winked_ , withdrew her hand, and sauntered off towards the maze of bookshelves.

Edwin struggled to keep his jaw from dropping. _Did she just…did that actually…what?_ He was sorely tempted to pinch himself, feeling almost as if he were back in the academy on Thaymount (the piles and piles of books were certainly similar.) Among the competing students seduction was an oft-used weapon, and Edwin had dodged a dangerous liaison or two in his time. (Dangerous not in a scandalous sense, but in the sense that if you followed the wrong young woman into a secluded spot you might find yourself groping and kissing a conjured serpent.)

But this sort of flirtation from a wychlaran?! Edwin had studied his enemies well, and by all accounts the Hathran were honorable to a _fault_. In none of the lore had there been as much as a whisper of one of them using her feminine charms to gain an advantage over an enemy. What sort of game was this witch playing?

Or… _hmm._

Really, would it be so absurd if the woman were simply showing an honest interest? He had to admit that pouring over scrolls and books with her had not been _entirely_ unpleasant, and she had seemed to be genuinely amused by some his observations, especially about the glaring faults of old Netheril. Completely irrational of course: to feel some sort of attraction to a man who had masterminded your capture and nearly your death. But when were women ever rational?

And although he had devoted a lot of thought to the best strategy for a spell-duel with the witch, perhaps a different sort of conquest-

_ Bah!  _ Scowling, Edwin gave his head a vigorous shake, hoping that all the ridiculous delusions would just rattle out. Foolishness itself! Again he opened the book before him, rereading the records of the Shoon Imperium in its prime and trying his best not think of Rashemi witches, with their long lashes and large, sleepy brown eyes.

* * *

A long time later Edwin finally closed his books, rubbed his eyes, and stood. He was satisfied (as best as one could be on such sparse information) that the scroll (or at least a clue as to its current whereabouts) could be found in a tomb somewhere in Athkatla.

Dreamily, he made his way past the rows of books and down the winding stairs, but soon the sight of vivid purple and gold stopped him in his tracks, blinking. _She's still out and about?_ The witch was leaning against a bookshelf, her head bowed close to some monk, whispering.

Surprising, though Edwin supposed that he just couldn't get away from the witch. What was more surprising (and annoying) was the sudden swell of anger in his breast when he glanced at the big, broad man the witch was chatting with. Taller than any monk he had ever seen, the man was dressed in brown robes (not one of the avowed then, but some devotee of Oghmah who had come here on pilgrimage), his face hidden by his hood.

Before Edwin could look away Dynaheir caught his eye, shooting him a smile and a wave. He turned his head sharply, only to find the annoying giant looming at his other side. No escape!

"Red wizard!" the idiot boomed, matching his steps. "Good! Minsc is famished, and would love some company for eveningfeast. That is where you are heading?"

"I am retiring, yes." They walked through the library. "And of course I will enjoy some supper."

"Minsc wonders what good Winthrop will serve us tonight!"

"The exact thing he serves every night," Edwin huffed. "Beef and tuber stew. With some toasted bread and cheese if we ask, along with pickled fish (I will not ask for that!)"

"But Edwin does enjoy the stew."

He turned to glare at the oaf, then paused and thought a moment. "Enjoy? Yes. The fat little innkeep here has a talent for cooking. Everything melts in your mouth, without turning to paste beforehand, and the spices are pleasant enough. Better than the other so-called cooks I have encountered in this land; their fare is either mush or the base components of a meal thrown, unassembled, upon a plate."

Minsc gave a hearty laugh of agreement.

* * *

And there it was: sprawled out upon the broad plateau above the sheer cliffs and backlit by the setting sun. The citadel. It's conical towers reached up into the gold-blue sky, low at first, in the great outer ring, then higher and higher with each tiered level of the fortress-monastery itself.

Home. Candlekeep looked exactly as Ashura remembered it, eternal and somehow separate from the world at large. With each trot she drew closer, the narrow causeway sloping gently before her and the air thick with the scent of brine. Far below waves crashed against the rocks.

"That stony path does appear a fine place to stage an ambush," Viconia observed, her voice a low whisper. "Provided we can find somewhere to hide. Tis too open here for my liking."

"Yeah," Ashura agreed. "Maybe Xan, Imoen, and Garrick can pool their skills with illusions. Disguise us as rocks or something at either end of the causeway, then when Rieltar and his people are halfway across we charge in and knock his guards off the cliff." Her hand slipped down to the satchel at her hip. "First things first though. We have this book to show off."

They continued up the path across the natural bridge, gradually climbing towards the plateau. Xan sat especially stiff in his saddle as they went, occasionally glancing down at the surf and rocks below. "It helps not to look down," Imoen pointed out.

"I wish someone had told me that earlier," Xan muttered.

"Also helps to always have a _featherfall_ spell handy."

Xan made himself as straight as he could and gripped his saddle horn. "Personally I prefer to just keep both feet _firmly_ on the ground."

Gradually the causeway widened, spilling out onto a small field of open dirt before the fortress gate. A man in heavy plate stood sentinel there at the narrow entrance, poised as straight and still as a statue, his well-polished halberd planted in the dirt. He wore no helmet, and Ashura was fairly certain that she recognized him.

She squinted. _Hm. Shelton?_ That salted brown hair, clean jaw, and gruff, overly-round face: yeah, it was definitely Shelton on shift today as Keeper of the Portal. And although he first appeared stiff and stern, the big man's grimace melted and his poleaxe slackened a bit when he realized who was approaching.

"Dear gods!" The Keeper exclaimed. "Is that really little Imoen?"

"Indeed it is!" Imoen called back, taking the lead and smoothly slipping down from the back of her horse. She then cleared the distance between herself and the guard in three titanic skips, stopping just sort of colliding with him and instead placing her hands against his breastplate. "Shelton! My good man! I'd give you a big hug, but…the metal suit and all."

With a laugh the guard carefully laid his gauntleted hand upon the girl's shoulder. "True. Not a costume designed for hugs." Again he chuckled. "Never thought I'd see your likes again. You coming home?"

"Here for a visit. You know the rules and such."

"Ah." He seemed to remember himself then, a hint of stone returning to his face. "Of course."

Imoen pointed over her shoulder. "Ashura's here too. And we've been good little girls and brought the customary book and everything."

The Keeper looked the rest of the party over, and when Ashura nodded at him he finally gave her a look of recognition, despite the helm and chainmail. "Ah. Good to see you lass."

With a nod and a smile Ashura began to dismount, though she was a bit more cautious about it than Imoen. Even if she _had_ been the sort to bounce and bound around, the abdominal cramping that had been bothering her all day would have put a stop to that. Once her feet were planted on the ground she drew Eltan's tome out of her bag and handed it over to the Keeper.

Shelton gently inspected the offering, turning it over and then opening it to a random page before closing the covers and handing it back. "Looks to be of value, yes. Though it will ultimately be up to Ulraunt to judge. Follow me." He turned and made a hand-signal to the inner guard, who began the procedure of raising the portcullis. "We'll get your horses stabled, then at least one of your party will need to be taken to the First Reader's offices. Just a formality, provided the book isn't full of blank pages."

"Ugh," Imoen complained. "So we really have to meet with Old Stick-in-the-Mud? You sure you can't make an exception?"

Shelton fought back a smile. "As uh…as Keeper of the Portal it is my advice to you, our honored guests, _not_ to refer to the First Reader as 'Old Stick-in-the-Mud.' But uh…yes. Yes you do."

The gate was clear now, so they filed in behind the Keeper and passed, one by one, through the thick outer walls of the fortress, stepping onto familiar ground. The well-stamped dirt, the stone walls, the little whitewashed outbuildings, and the milling figures in their bright but simple robes; it was home, exactly as they had left it.

At the inner gate the Keeper handed them over to a different guard, saying that he would serve as their guide. Their guide, and another _very_ familiar face. Hells, the boy had been standing in this very spot, trying to stay upright despite a hangover, the last time Ashura had seen him.

Hull's eyes went wide when he spotted them, alighting instantly on Ashura, and his plated armor clinked when he took a few steps closer. "Ash? Immy?!" For some silly reason Ashura had thought everyone would have aged or grown or shrunk in the time that she had been gone, but Hull looked exactly the same, right down to the length of his unruly brown hair. "Never in a million years did I think…you're back!"

Ashura just nodded and smiled. As with Shelton, steel armor and plate gauntlets kept the watcher from giving his long-lost friends a full embrace, though he seemed to sorely want to. Instead Hull placed a heavy hand against Ashura's shoulder. "Ash! It's so good to… When we found Gorion's body in the woods I thought you were dead too! Me and Fuller searched and searched, but…" He looked a little hurt. "And you never even said that you were going. Just threw your sword at me that morning and then…poof!"

Ashura looked down. "It was kind of sudden. Dad just said we had to leave, right there and then. Then we were ambushed that night."

"Oh." A pause. "I thought you'd come knocking on the door or send a letter or something…if…the wolves hadn't got you…"

"Sorry. There _were_ wolves. And a lot more. It's been a…pretty busy year."

"I suppose so." He gave her a quick inspection. "And look at you. In a fine suit of chainmail. And carrying a gilded sword. That's enchanted armor, right?"

"It is."

"Well, good to see you've at least made well for yourself, kid."

_ Kid.  _ There was a hint of the old condescension in Hulls voice at that, though he still had a wide smile on his face. She let it slide. "Good to see you haven't changed," she said, and meant it, clapping his armored shoulder and smiling back.

"You are to lead us to the First Reader then?" Xan put in impatiently.

"Guess I am," Hull chuckled, still looking to Ashura. "I suppose you and Immy know the way to his office."

"I _tried_ to avoid it as much as possible," Imoen insisted.

"Yeah. We all do." Realizing what he'd just said, Hull straightened up a little and looked sheepish, then turned slightly. "I'll guide you to the stables first. Dreppin'll be pleased to see you." They started through the yard.

"Is old Nessa still giving him milk?" Imoen asked. "I remember you were worried…"

"Oh, aye. Aye. Took a while, but that concoction my mother used to make did the trick." Slowly they wound around the inner wall, walking their horses along the dusty track while Hull and Imoen talked and talked, making an effort to catch up.

Soon it was mostly Imoen doing the talking, the Watcher simply nodding while his eyes periodically bulged wide at some of more outlandish details. "How in the world do you even fight something that can turn into mist?" he eventually asked.

"With a lot of persistence! Just a shame it didn't turn into mist when it died. It nearly flattened poor Shura. Now the sirines, they had the courtesy to turn into sea-foam after you killed 'em."

"Sirines? Really?"

The ramshackle sprawl of the stables and the overhangs that served as cattle pens soon came into view, and as usual Dreppin was hard at work in front of them, bent forward with a pitchfork spreading hay. Hull gave the big, broad-shouldered stable master a friendly shout as they approached. "Got some horses that need tending," he announced with a grin. "For our special guests here."

Dreppin turned their way, and he looked about the same as ever: a weathered and square-faced man somewhere in his thirties, black hair sticking out every-which-way and no effort made to tame it. Muscular, friendly, quick with a joke and easy on the eyes, Dreppin had always been a favorite among some of the women of the Keep. Jokes and rumors (some unfounded and some not) about 'rolls in the hay' abounded around him. The one feature missing today, though, was his usual ivory-toothed smile. Instead he looked a bit distracted, nodding his head all businesslike. "Of course," Dreppin grunted, then turned back towards the stable gate.

"Um," Imoen hummed. "Hey!" She punctuated the greeting with a clap. "Dreppy? That any way to greet the girl that got Lightning _and_ Balor calm enough fer ya to shoe 'em?"

Looking back, Dreppin peered at her a bit more. He still looked a little confused.

"You said you'd be in my eternal debt and-"

"Ah!" That big gleaming smile finally burst across the stable master's face. "If it ain't little Imoen!" Laughing, he rushed over to clap her on the arm. "Hardly recognized you!"

Hull chuckled. "She does seem to have lost a little weight."

"Ugh. Yeah," Imoen muttered. "Don't I know it! Too much walking; and let me tell ya, there ain't much good eatin' to be had around a campfire in the middle of nowhere."

"Hopefully Winthrop can fix that," Hull suggested.

"Ha! Yup. Once he's done scolding my ear off…"

By then Dreppin's two assistants had appeared, ready to take the horses to their stalls to be watered and brushed. When it came Ashura's turn to hand over the reins she offered them directly to Dreppin, who just gave her a stiff nod. She cleared her throat at him, he cocked his head, and then once again recognition brightened his face. "Oh. You're…well I'll be a ogres ass! Ash! Most of us thought you had…after they found Gorion…" He cringed and shook his head. "Sorry. I didn't recognize you in all that armor."

"I've been getting that," Ashura said. "I'm sure Phlydia won't remember me at all. But then again she never did."

Dreppin just nodded and took the horse off her hands, patting its snout when it let out a nervous whinny.

After a little conferring, Imoen and Ashura left the others to finish with the horses and the unpacking, following Hull around the great ring of the outer fortress and through one of the interior gates. From there they climbed up the garden paths of the inner grounds, walked between the bubbling fountains, and then mounted the steps and entered the hushed halls of the Keep proper.

Inside the lighting was the same as it had always been, night or day, now or a year or ten years ago. No time had passed here at all, and the marble visage of Alaundo the Wise looked down upon the visitors, just as enigmatic as always and tightly clutching his book. The low murmur of chanting hummed through the halls and the crisp smell of parchment filled the air.

Hull was careful to minimize the clinking of his platemail as he led the guests between rows and rows of shelves, towards the suite of offices that occupied one end of the keep's lowest and widest story. The office of the First Reader stood prominently between the rest, its double doors far wider and more ornate. When Hull reached them he raised a mailed fist and made a move to knock, but then he paused, turning back to whisper: "I'm glad you two are okay. Really. And Ash…well, sorry if I was maybe a bit of a…"

Imoen opened her mouth to fill in the blank, but Ashura beat her to it. "Nothing to be sorry for. Glad you're alive too," she said with a smile. "What with your dangerous post and all."

He chuckled. "The boredom hasn't killed me yet."

"Or the hangovers?"

"With the watered down stuff Winthrop serves? No way." He turned back towards the door. "Just good to see you again." And with that he gave the wood a quick, careful knock.

The gruff reply from the other side was immediate. "Yes?"

"Got a party of pilgrims here, carrying the customary gift."

There was an irritated grunt from the other side of the door. "Eh. Show them in then."

Ulraunt was hunched over his desk as usual, his long and carefully groomed beard hovering just above the pages of the book before him. It seemed that he had been writing on those pages; one gnarled hand was braced near the inkpot, gripping a reed pen. As always he was dressed all in spotless white, accented here and there by the gold and gemstones of his enchanted jewelry, his dusky skin a contrast to his beard, long white hair, and robes. His hooded eyes spared the visitors the briefest of glances before he went back to his book and raised his pen…

…then, with an intake of air and a genuine start, the old buzzard looked up again. "You!" he muttered at Ashura, eyes sharpening upon her. Then he turned to Imoen. "And _you_." The book instantly forgotten, he planted his fists on the table and glared. "I had hoped to never set eyes on either of you again." That glare focused fully on Imoen. "Suppose I need to go back to opening my door with the utmost caution and checking my desk very carefully if _you're_ going to be here. And should I seek out a poison taster, again?"

"Hey! That wasn't poison," Imoen protested. "It was just supposed to be real spicy. And I thought you Halruuan's were used to spicy stuff! (So maybe I went a little overboard. And I might have used a little something from Obe's alchemical collection for an extra kick…)"

"Everything tasted like soap for days! What kind of 'spice' does that?"

"The funny kind!" He didn't laugh. "Sorry. And hey, that was years ago-"

"Yeah," Ashura spoke up. "We're just here on business."

His eyes shifted to her, and to Ashura's surprise Ulraunt's glare seemed to grow even harsher. She understood why the old man might be upset with Imoen even after all this time, but what had _she_ ever done to him? "And what 'business' is it that you're in now?" the old buzzard asked with a sneer. "I can hazard a guess."

Gods. What was with that look of his? Business? Was he accusing her of taking up whoring or something? "Uh. The usual business of the library. We're here with a book." She lifted the tome out of her satchel, clinching it between her palms and trying to resist the sudden urge to just _slam_ it down hard as she could on the desk. "The entrance fee." She carefully laid the book down.

Ulraunt shook his head slightly. "You're no scholar. You never have been. So why in Oghma's name do you wish to enter this place?"

"Uh, we grew up here," Imoen cut in with a huff. "Our friends live here. Family too. Pretty normal to –ya know– want to visit them."

The old buzzard closed his own book and slid it aside, reaching out to carefully take his new gift. First he turned the manual over and over in his hands, eventually prying the covers apart and opening it to a random page. A heavy silence hung in the air, broken a minute later by the rustle of a page. Then another. "Hm. There are enchantments here." Another page was gently turned. "Quality script and bindings too. And vivid colors in both the headings and illuminations." He closed the covers –paused a moment. "Whose corpse did you lift this off of?"

_ Ramazith's _ . "It was given to us by a grand duke," Ashura said.

Ulraunt cocked his head a degree, and Ashura thought she heard a faint buzzing in the air. "A true statement. Hm. Though it's only a small piece of the truth isn't it?"

She gave him a level gaze, waiting for probing questions rather than rhetorical ones. But eventually Ulraunt just took a breath and inclined his head. "Very well. By the rules of the Keep you and whatever party of servants you brought may stay the customary tenday, with access to the standard sections of the library." That full glare again. "But the moment the week is up I want you all out. If you don't leave sooner, which would be my preference."

"We'll be gone as soon as we can," Ashura agreed. And with that she began to turn around, suddenly as eager as her childhood-self to be away from that accusing glare; that look she remembered catching from the First Reader countless times. Fretting over a book, playing in the mud, building forts with Imoen and Lyda, or racing with Shistal; it seemed he had given her that same look each and every time that he passed by and noticed her. She remembered it, but now it seemed ten times stronger than when she was a child. The air in here was too heavy. Too thick with his authority and his contempt and…

And she was no longer a child. Halfway around Ashura stopped herself, nostrils drawing in a deep breath, and then she whirled back and leveled a searing glare of her own at the old man. "Wait. I understand with Ims, but why do you hate _me_ so much? What in the Hells did I ever do to you?"

"To me?" His voice was low. "Nothing. But your father was a friend of mine, and you destroyed him."

A sudden heat flared up inside her. She stiffened. "I…I never…" _How dare you!_ "I saw him _murdered_ in front of me! The night we left." The edge of her vision suddenly clouded, and it felt like steam was gathering there in her eyes, her voice instantly raw. "I wanted to fight. He told me to run. I wanted to save him, but…"

She had stood there in awe of the ogres and the armored giant of a man –fight or flight– until that bolt of fire came hissing in. Burning pain in her shoulder that spun her around –spun her into action too. _'Run!'_ he had shouted.

Ulraunt ignored what she had said. His mind seemed to be elsewhere; not in that clearing on that night, certainly. "I told your _foster_ father, when he first brought you here: 'That's not your child. She may look like someone you loved, but you are _not_ her father. And mark my words: that child will be the death of you.' And I was right. He was a dead man even then."

"He lived-"

"Did he?" Still low, almost a whisper, but there was fury in his voice now. "Did he?! Withering away up here, hidden from the world? Pretending at a family he'd never truly have? Pining for a dead woman, and trying to tame a beast that he called 'daughter.' You never knew the man I did, before all of that. That night he brought you two in it seemed he'd aged ten years within a month. The Harper mage who had straddled the world, with such power and potential –who had done so much! More good than you can possibly imagine! And he was just a husk. And as the years went by, and you proved to be everything I predicted you would be, he just grew more and more withered.

"Then -also just as I had predicted- his true end came. And all because of you."

Ashura clinched her teeth. "I didn't kill my father."

"Your nature did, Bhaalspawn. You know the prophesies. You are a curse to all around you."

She couldn't control her breaths. Her vision swam and the back of her throat chafed. Her face burned and there was ice in her veins.

And she could see Gorion's face now, right there, clear as day. _Withered away._ The sad-eyed old man she'd always called father, with that wistful look upon his face. Disappointed. He had locked himself away up here in this monastery. And she had taken him for granted all her life. And now he was…and had she ever told him…

This old buzzard before her –this _bastard_ who had called her a _beast_! He was right. He was right and he was glaring at her across his desk with all the arrogance in the world!

Muscles in her arm twitched, and then Ashura's eyes shifted down to find that she was gripping the hilt of Varscona, sweaty-palmed and white-knuckled. How long had she been holding onto it? _Not in this place. Not in this place._ She made herself breathe, and eased her fingers loose, one by one. _No. Not in this place. I won't prove-_

"Now that our business is all squared away," Imoen suddenly announced in a cheerful, almost sing-song voice, "we'd better get back to the others! Right Shura? Good idea, eh?"

All the heat and rawness just went away, and the blur of Ashura's vision went from steam to a cool mist. A fog. And what Imoen said absolutely sounded like a lovely idea. "Yeah," she muttered, and when Imoen patted her arm Ashura just let herself be guided out towards the office door.

"You know you prove my point," Ulraunt stated to their backs, "by doing that."

"Yeah?" Imoen replied, turning. "Well you can just bugger off, ya big puffed up pocket o' hateful old pus!" For emphases she added _the_ most obscene gesture she had in her (considerable) repertoire to the insult, roughly three degrading sex-acts somehow implied all at once by the pantomimed motions, along with a peeled-back eyelid and an ugly noise.

"Enjoy your tenday. And leave as soon as you can."

The door shut behind them and the library passed by in a blur. In no time they were standing in the cool, open air at the top of the steps, and then as suddenly as it had arrived the fog that had come over Ashura abated. She found herself blinking in confusion and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "You charmed me," she eventually stated.

"Sorry," Imoen murmured sheepishly. "Really. I lifted it soon as I could, but…"

"Don't be. It's okay." Ashura shook her head, looking down at the swords belted at her hip. Chainmail clinked as she sat down hard on the top step, bending forward to place her face in her hands. Soon they were wet with tears.

"I didn't think you were gonna' prove Ulraunt right or anything," Imoen said softly –and not very convincingly– as she sat down too. "But it seemed like the quickest way out of there."

But Ulraunt had been right. Not in the way that Imoen meant ( _Not here! She would not draw her sword here_ ), but at least about her father. _'That child will be the death of you.' 'Bhaalspawn.'_

That word meant little more than a mild confirmation, of course. She had figured out that she was a child of Bhaal a good while ago. And that father- er, her foster father, had taken her here to protect her; to raise her away from all the violence and death that had been prophesized.

And she had been an ungrateful, horrible little brat the whole time. It had never occurred to her how much he had sacrificed –or _why_ he had always tried to steer her towards books and away from swords. She had never thought to ask. Never tried. And now she never could. He was buried in the crypts beneath them, after _dying_ for his daughter. Despite all that she was and what she had done…and failed to do.

She'd never be able to ask him. Or to tell him what she wanted to say right now…

All the gods damn him at once, Ulraunt had been right!

Tremors shook Ashura as she sobbed, curled up there on the top step. Instantly she felt Imoen's presence against her, an arm over her shoulder and squeezing as hard possible in a gesture of silent comfort. They stayed like that a long, long time –forever, it felt like– as the fountains trickled, twilight set in, and the tears just flowed and flowed.


	76. Bewitched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we learn why Dynaheir was flirting with Edwin

_ "But one of the deadliest traits of the Greater Doppelganger is its ability to fully subsume the memories and skills of any person, after consuming their brain. Just imagine how dangerous such a creature could make itself if that brain happened to belong to a powerful mage."  _ – Gaurdront Elmithar, _Gaurdront's Guide to Monstrous Beasts_

* * *

"Alright boys," Winthrop snarled. "We've got 'em where we want 'em. Now make every bolt count!"

By the time Ashura made a placating gesture towards her companions Xan had already called up an _arrowshield_ spell, surrounding himself with violet light, Viconia had crouched down and hissed out a prayer to Shar, creating a second skin of dancing shadows over her leather armor, and Garrick had dropped to the floor, drawn his crossbow, and slapped a bolt in.

Imoen ignored all of that and bounded forward, full speed, leaping 'round the tabletop to collide with her dad in an embrace that nearly knocked him over. "Awwww! Puffguts!" she exclaimed. "You do come up with the best pretend-ambuscades!"

"Only the best fer my little girl," Winthrop replied, patting her shoulder. "I'd heard that you were out hunting bounties and livin' the life, but I didn't realize yer company would be _that_ twitchy." He surveyed them all with a good-natured smile, then snickered. "Now I've a mind to write one of them mage-dueling manuals. 'Hire someone to go up to yer enemy and shout about the pretend ambush that's coming,' I'll write. 'They'll blow their load o' defensive spells right-quick!'"

Straightening, Viconia smoothed her cloak out. "This is…some friend of yours?" she asked as she glared at the innkeep.

"Her foster father," Ashura answered. "It's where she gets most of it from."

"Explains a lot," Xan observed.

"Well, he did get you!" Imoen teased with a waggle of her finger.

"And when I die later this evening from an _actual_ volley of arrows I am sure everyone will laugh at the irony." Xan glanced around, choosing not to dismiss the protective spell.

The common area of Winthrop's inn was more like a comfortable sitting room than a true tavern. There were cushioned chairs arrayed in front of the hearth, the other side of the room boasted a long dining table lined with benches, and that was about it. Crowded too, with men in drab clothing bent over their bowls of stew and filling nearly all the seats. Strangers, and by Ashura's guess they were probably servants of the Iron Throne.

Well, mostly strangers. As she looked around Ashura's eyes alighted on a familiar face at the far end of the table: a dusky woman with a haughty, upturned nose and a knowing look in her eyes. The Rashemi witch was dressed the same as before too; in that sturdy purple of dress of hers, speckled with heavy bronze and golden jewelry. As their eyes met Dynaheir gave Ashura a familiar, bemused nod.

The witch's bodyguard sat next to her, obliviously hunched over his bowl of steaming stew, though as Ashura pondered whether to start towards them the big man suddenly perked up, glancing first at his shoulder and then over towards her. There was a large smile on his gravy-smeared face. "Minsc remembers you!" the barbarian proclaimed as Ashura approached. "A fine gnoll-slayer you were! Almost as great as Minsc himself. And a rescuer of fair Dynaheir!"

If the witch had any doubts about that she hid them well, nodding serenely. "Yes. A fine slayer she was."

"I keep hearing that." Ashura carefully replied. "You're still in Candlekeep huh?"

Minsc clapped. "Aye. The people in hoods and dresses are most pleased with Dynaheir's work. Some call her an 'honorary reader,' though they often get scolded for such words by the ones who wear more colorful dresses."

"As well they should," Dynaheir put in, her tone diplomatic, "since I've no wish to become one of the avowed. Twas shocking how, with all the tongues spoken in these halls, no monk present knew much of Rashemi, either in language or lore. We have been working to rectify that."

"And enjoying good Winthrop's hearty stews, of course!" Minsc added. "You should taste some yourself. Tis not unlike the fare served in the Ice Dragon Berserker lodge! Though it could perhaps be improved if good Winthrop would include beets."

"I've had his stew, yeah," Ashura said.

"Of course," Dynaheir replied with a nod. "Thou wert brought up in this place, no? Raised by a sage, whilst the innkeep cared for thy friend."

Ashura gave the woman a hard look. Had they ever _actually_ told her that? She seemed to recall cutting Imoen off when she came close to spilling all of their secrets to the pair of Rashemi.

"Yup!" Imoen piped up. "Grew up on old Puffguts' stews and sausages and roasted tatters. And best of all: his cream-and-berry pies!" For emphasis she bent her back and patted her paunch. "Good stuff. And when I wasn't gobbling it down I was toting it around. A regular tavern-wench-in-training I was, before I set off for the life of adventure."

'Old Puffguts' had followed along too, standing now beside his adopted daughter. A short fellow, he only stood a few inches taller than her. "Aye," he agreed. "She would have been a master bartender in no time too. A fine occupation." He gave Imoen a pointed look, some of his humor evaporating. "And a much _safer_ one. You gave us such a scare lass, running away like that."

Imoen squirmed a little. "I had told you I'd be leaving. Then it just happened a little early and unexpected-like. And anyways, I'm gonna' make every minute of this visit here count. Okay?"

"Okay," Winthrop agreed, smiling again. He surveyed the table and the people arrayed around it. "And you're already acquainted with these exotic folks I take it? Guess it really is a small world."

"Oh yeah," Imoen said. "We've made all sorts of interesting friends (and enemies) out in the big wide world!" Something caught her eye and she turned towards the stairs. "Whoa! Speak of the devil!" She pointed at the tall figure who had started down the steps. He was dressed in a gaudy shade of red. " _He's_ here too!?"

Edwin started, his head bobbing a bit when he felt the eyes of half the room upon him. But his posture swiftly stiffened, shoulders square and nose going high as he puffed himself up.

Ashura could almost laugh. _He always puffs himself up._

* * *

They all grew reacquainted over steaming bowls of stew and several rounds of drinks, hastened along by Minsc's insistent toasts to the dead after he learned the fate of his war-priestess. (Edwin vaguely recalled the woman: blockish and obnoxiously jolly, with a prominent mole on her face. Useful with a hammer too, though he supposed it was no big loss.)

Gradually even Edwin grew… _Hrm._ 'Relaxed' was not quite the right word. 'Resigned' was more appropriate. Resigned to the odd company the crowded library-fortress had forced upon him. And even slightly amused by the twists and turns that had led him to this table, and the way that the big oaf now seemed to regard him with something like comradery. It showed what a fool he truly was, that he could disregard or even forget being thrown off a cliff. The red-haired girl appeared wiser: she watched the antics of the big fool with perpetual disbelief.

In contrast the warrior-girl had only given them one incredulous look, then went back to being her usual disaffected self. As their supper progressed she ignored most of the conversation, her red-rimmed eyes distant and downcast. There was some story there, Edwin supposed. Perhaps there had been a recent spat with that young man of hers? (The boy looked quite bewildered and uncomfortable at the moment.) Maybe there was an opportunity here…

"Indeed, the evil wizard has been behaving," Minsc was saying. "As well as evil can."

( _Bah!_ )

"I find that hard to believe," the red-haired girl replied.

"It is much like when the Hemner Clan and the Coven of the White Hand were feuding, but put aside their differences to fight a greater evil. So too has the evil wizard and good Dynaheir made a truce to conquer books together! That is how Boo explains it at least. And they have conquered many a book!"

"On what subject?" the elf dressed in violet asked mildly. The elven _investigator_ as Edwin recalled, stiffening in his chair. Best not to-

"He has a keen interest in tracking down a relic of one of the creator races," Dynaheir casually explained. "An ever-changing scroll that holds innumerable arcane secrets. Thou hast perhaps heard of such?"

The elf looked shocked. "I have," he managed.

The audacity! Was she…was she about to tell this meddler –and mage!– everything he had uncovered?!

"It is-" Dynaheir began.

But Edwin swiftly cut her off. "And _she_ has been delving into the prophesies of Alaundo the Wise. A popular subject in these parts." There was a clink as the warrior-girl's spoon dropped into her bowl, her full attention suddenly upon him. _Curious._ "Most notably _Volume IX_ of the seer's works, which concerns itself with many recent events. The fall of the gods and the great turmoil in the pantheon that marks our age. That sort of thing." He gave the witch as probing a look as he could, but – _blast her_ – that sphinx's smile never left her face.

Edwin decided to press on. _If anyone is going to casually fling about secrets…_ "I believe that book, and this citadel itself, have been the chief subjects of the witch's study. She goes through every record she can get her hands on, and has interviewed most of the residents here." Yet _still_ she looked impassive. Unprovoked. "Almost as if she were searching for something in this place. Something that relates to _Volume IX_ of Alaundo's prophesies."

The others stared at him in silence, but Dynaheir just mildly inclined her head. "And what, o' great deductive one, is it that I hath been seeking?"

Edwin's mouth opened and he leaned in, ready to leap –but he paused instead. In truth he was not sure. There was quite a lot hinted at in that volume of prophesies, from the coming war between the Bhaalspawn to the elven Return, along with the 'rising shadows in Netheril-reborn' and Mephistopheles' great gambit.

Edwin's mouth snapped shut, for a moment, and when he opened it again his words were carefully measured. "Something I would think you would _not_ wish discussed in a crowded room." A glance at Xan. "In front of an agent of Evereska. Really, what sort of Hathran are you, to be so cavalier with knowledge?"

She just chuckled, and the table was silent for a moment. "Who sayeth that I art Hathran? Not every wychlaran is so initiated."

"I sayeth. Or at least I hope you are," ( _After all the trouble you have been..._ ) "since Hathrans are adept at keeping secrets." Perhaps she took the hint, since the conversation soon shifted, and there was never a mention of the Nether Scroll again.

* * *

Later that night, after the party of newcomers had retired to the stables (the inn and bunkhouse were truly and honestly filled to capacity now), Edwin found himself hovering over his wineglass, pondering the surface of the liquid and absently rubbing the stem of his clay cup. By all appearances he must have seemed lost in thought –and he certainly was pondering his next move– but he sensed the witch as she approached. She sought a perch on the bench beside him, turned the other way and casually leaning against the table.

"Again you disturb me," Edwin growled.

"Indeed," she replied, unruffled. "I wished a word, now that there are fewer ears to overhear."

Edwin spared the room a rudimentary glance. The common area had indeed emptied. Besides the witch and her bodyguard only the innkeeper and the short, red-haired sprite remained, both over in the far corner behind the bar, gleefully chattering away. Edwin turned his eyes back upon the witch. "Yes?"

"Thou appeared curious about mine research, earlier."

"Did I?"

"Whilst pretending to know every detail, of course." She smirked. "The way of Thayvian wizards. The words 'I do not know' are stricken from thine vocabularies at the very start of training." He just glared. "While among my sisters we begin with those very words, for admitting ignorance is the first step towards wisdom."

"You wish to tell me something?" Edwin asked, voice low and impatient.

"No. What I wish to do is strike a bargain. Mine research in this place has been into the nature of Bhaal's children, if thou must knowest: the creatures that the Lord of Murder spawned to hold portions of his divinity in anticipation of his demiste." Edwin fought to keep his eyebrows from raising at that. A useful bit of information given away already, before any terms were laid upon the table. Surprisingly foolish of her. "And I hath discovered some very interesting details, which I am willing to divulge to thee…"

He just gave her a fixed look and waited. "…in exchange for thy vow as a Thayvian mage to not interfere with my mission, or attempt to harm me."

Edwin sighed dramatically. "This again. I have explained several times that I-"

"Do not attempt to fool me or thyself," she spoke quickly, slipping forward and leaning in closer. "I know of thy mission. But I also know that information about the Bhaalspawn, who walk these very halls, will be of great value to Denak."

Edwin had been fighting to keep his face stony, but he had not been entirely successful, especially at the mention of that name. _How much_ does _she know about operations here? And how?_ "Bhaalspawn?" he asked.

"Aye. I shall tell thee, and I shall prove it. Between your artifact and the status thou might gain from this information, thou shalt profit greatly."

"After promising not to attack you, and to stay out of your way?"

She grinned and nodded, looming close. _Bah!_ This was obviously some form of entrapment. At some point the witch would ensure that 'not interfering' put him at cross-purposes with the entire enclave.

Although…would that necessarily be a bad thing? Together he, the witch, and the berserker would be a match for Denak and his two boot-lickers. Burning them all had a certain appeal, provided word never got back…

It was much to ponder, and she was leaning a bit too close for his comfort. Without really thinking Edwin found himself slipping off the bench and rising to his feet, retreating a step. He worked to maintain his composure, standing up straight. "I will think on it," he simply stated. _And I will think on what spells to prepare for tomorrow, while I'm at it._

She just nodded in agreement, again leaning back casually against the table. "I have patience." There was something almost languid in her voice.

He turned and walked away, and as he climbed the stairs (rapid as he could while still maintaining his dignity) he heard the big idiot speak up. "Dynaheir. Boo says that as of late you've been acting-" And then Edwin was above and out of earshot.

* * *

It was a bit past dawn when, still bleary-eyed and blinking, Ashura made her way from the little privy-house behind the stables and back towards the haylofts. She had awakened to find that a little cleaning was in order, her monthly time here at last, but now a new cloth was securely in place and all was well.

A relief really: recently her bleedings had become quite irregular, to the point where she had once missed a month entirely. Worried that she might be pregnant, she had consulted with Viconia, who laughed when she was told 'You're the closest thing to a midwife that we have.'

After a brief examination the priestess had concluded that it was no pregnancy, but simply a consequence of the life they now led. 'Your body suffers one massive trauma or another on a weekly basis,' Viconia had stated. 'Patched up by Shar's power again and again, I shall add. And you'd best be grateful. But with such an irregular life one can expect an irregular cycle as well. Tis commonplace where I am from.'

But now Ashura found herself uninjured, unarmored, walking on familiar ground, and once again dealing with that minor annoyance she had contended with many a time, here at home. If she closed her eyes she could almost pretend that this was just another day at the Citadel. That things could return to normal once again.

She chuckled at the thought, passing through the barn door. It would probably be wiser to don her armor.

Harpsong guided her up to the loft where the party had spent the night. Garrick was already up, his legs hanging over the edge as he plucked out a gentle tune. Viconia still slept, Xan was hunched over his spellbook, and Imoen had spent the night with her father and sisters, so once Ashura was equipped it was only the bard who followed her back down the ladder, a big beaming smile on his face.

"Is there anything I need to know in the library?" he asked as they walked.

She shrugged. "The rules are probably the same as in Berdusk. Keep your voice low, although there's often a little chatter in the Keep. Handle the books and scrolls carefully and put them back where you found them. The monks forbid visitors from writing anything down too. And don't steal anything."

"Of course. And hey, I've never been much of a thief! Some of the actors liked to pick the pockets of audience members when they got distracted, but I never did. Always wanted to prove that I could make it on my talents alone, even if Silke laughed at that sometimes and called me naive."

"You do well enough." When he gave her a bashful look she reached over and patted his arm. "You should play at the inn tonight. Bet they'd love it. Maybe Minsc'll teach you some Rashemi drinking songs."

Garrick made a face. "Sheesh. I couldn't. The most legendary bards in the world come through here and play at that inn."

"They do," she agreed. "And you'll fit right in." The best _and_ worst bards all passed through at one point, in her experience, but she left that part out. She wasn't at all sure where Garrick fit on the scale, honestly, but she knew that _she_ enjoyed his music. Especially the meandering, wistful melodies he often favored, slow and soothing, with hint of cheerful pluck. He had a lovely voice too. Definitely better than _some_ of the minstrels whose performances she'd caught over the years at the Candlekeep Inn.

"As long as you think I can." He smiled at her. "Thanks. That means a lot."

"I love your music," she said, and meant it. "And Hells," she added, "you'll find a good audience here. The monks are always polite. The place never gets particularly rowdy. Uh. Unless Hull has the night off. But if he's there I'll make him behave."

The great library was as cavernous and quiet as ever. Perhaps they should have started the search for Rieltar then and there, but with Garrick gaping at the scale and marbled beauty of the place it put Ashura more in the mood to act like a tourist. So that's exactly what they did, meandering between the endless rows of books. They marveled at the section devoted entirely to bestiaries, then song, then folklore, Garrick leading the way more often than not, but peppering her with endless questions.

Sometime later they found themselves hunched over a great book of Rashemi tales that Ashura guessed was the very book Minsc and Dynaheir had brought, Garrick mumbling slightly as he read. They were interrupted by the sound of someone clearing his throat.

When she looked up Ashura's eyes widened at the sight of the ancient, bearded priest standing before them, his high-collared cloak a powder blue and his robes a soft shade of gold; long white hair just peaking out from beneath his hood. The man wore a gentle, patient half-smile as always, eyes looking upon everyone in the manner of a kindly grandfather.

"First Reader," Ashura whispered with a respectful nod of her head.

"Child," Tethtoril responded with a smile and a nod of his own. "I am pleased to see that you yet live. Such a sad business, with your father."

"Thanks. I'm sorry-"

"There is nothing to apologize for. I imagine you've had quite the time of it, out in the wider world." He looked her over. "Such a hurried departure. Am I to understand that Gorion was struck down that very night?"

"Yeah."

"Then I suppose that there is much he did not tell you."

She cringed, then nodded. "I've…pieced a few things together. That I suppose you all were keeping secret. And I guess Ulraunt filled in the rest."

"You are angry. Understandable. Where it up to me you would have been told of your past when you came of age, but ultimately it was your father's decision. And I am sure he had your best interests in mind."

Ashura shrugged. "Yeah, I think he meant well. And it's all in the past now."

The First Reader pondered a moment. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. There were some…personal effects left in your father's chambers, when he left. And before he did, he told me that he wished for you to have them, if you ever returned. One of the reasons I sought you out." He gestured. "Come."

* * *

Slowly turning his head, Edwin critically examined his reflection in the bedroom mirror, smoothing out his braided beard. He then turned to the other side, stroking his chin. _Yes_. All appeared properly trimmed, and everything seemed to be in place, though just to be sure he triple-checked.

The circlet that protected him from mental probing and attacks was firmly secured atop his brow, of course, and his enchanted bracelets hugged his wrists. His contingency spell was in place as well, which would conjure up a protective layer around his body should he be physically attacked, and the _Ring of Spell Storing_ on one of his fingers was primed with a powerful spell-turning protection. On his other finger he wore a ring that quickened his thoughts, honing his arcane abilities to a razor's edge, and as always he wore the necklace that was his birthright; enchanted to further expand his spellcasting capacities as well as functioning as a signet and proof of his noble blood. His tattoos granted him protection from the elements, of course, and over that (and proper underclothes) his robes were woven through with sigils that granted a minor resistance to magic.

On top of all of that he was certain that he had prepared an impenetrable web of spells, specifically with the witch in mind, should she foolishly turn on him. His hood was in place over his head, his shoes were firmly laced, and he had dabbed a bit of his favorite scented oil onto all the proper spots. Breathing in, he inhaled the scent of sandalwood. _Perfect._

Without further delay Edwin turned to the door and marched out, making his way down to the inn's common room. The scent of frying eggs greeted him as he descended the stairs, and predictably the big bald oaf was hard at work on his morning meal. The witch was by his side, reading a book over an untouched morningfeast, and her eyes instantly alighted on Edwin as he entered.

Without hesitation he strode towards the longtable and the woman, hands hidden by the sleeves of his robe. When she gave him a bemused look he leaned in slightly and spoke. "I have considered your offer."

She cocked her head.

"And found what you spoke of…adequate enough. _If_ the information you give me is something that the enclave will use," ( _Ah, wording. Always be careful with the wording!_ ) "then I will make no attempts on your life, nor shall I attempt to interfere with your mission here."

The witch nodded her head. "I am pleased then." Her eyes leveled with his, hooded and mysterious as always. Then silence stretched between them, and the big buffoon looked up with a hint of confusion, his fork held in midair.

Before things got out of hand, Edwin let out a dramatic sigh. "Get on with it then. Who are the Bhaalspawn you are tracking?"

Dynaheir gave her head a cautious shake. "Not here." She rose. "Too many ears." And with that she began towards the stairs, gesturing for Edwin to follow. There was a scuff and clink as Minsc shifted in his seat as well, but the witch shot him a pointed look and stated two words in Rashemi. "Bli ostavatsa."

Frowning, Minsc sat back down, and Edwin felt slightly insulted by the assumption that he would not recognize the words. ' _You stay_.' He knew Rashemi well enough; know your enemy and all of that. Still, he followed the witch towards the stairs, caution in his step and the command-words for his ring on his mind.

As they walked Edwin watched the witch closely. "Truly?" he asked. "You think me a young green fool, to be lured to a secluded spot with promises?"

Dynaheir turned back and let out an exaggerated huff. "Truly? We were alone countless times in the secluded corners of the library, and not once did I seek thy demise. And on my honor as a Hathran I shall not now."

"You say as much. But I am reminded here of the trials of Thaymount…"

"Oh? The schools where the most brilliant of thy culture are pressed against each other to compete in deadly trials?"

"It is not _quite_ as dramatic as outsiders may think, but the weak _are_ culled in the academies. And do not tell me that _no_ wychlaran perish in the pursuit of their training. No matter the setting, the study of magic -where a wrong word or gesture can call up elemental chaos- is always dangerous."

"There is a hint of truth to thy words. For us witches there are always lives claimed by accidental fires, transformations, or dangerous spirits."

"And I will concede that my culture encourages competition to an extent that leads to more of those 'accidents' happening then is needed." They began up the stairs. "The best of the best are produced through competition. And some of those competitions involved students drawing others into secluded spots. With the lure of information or…other things."

"A place of many traps, I imagine."

"I learned of those traps very swiftly," Edwin pressed on as they mounted the stairs, his eyes constantly shifting (though of course they rested upon the witch's swishing backside on occasion –his blood ran as red as his robes, after all– but he continued to scan his surroundings too). "There was this one student in my year. Althena. She met an unfortunate accident on her way to her dormitory, as she was guiding me there. From a misfired ward that exploded at her feet."

"How unsubtle," Dynaheir stated calmly.

"My teachers told me that as well, and reprimanded me. But not bothering with subtleties when fiery explosions will do has served me well through many a Thayvian 'intrigue.'"

The witch just chuckled, turning and pushing the door to her bedroom aside. "I shall keep that in mind. Now follow me."

Confident that he had made his point, and (more importantly) had all the right spells ready, Edwin crossed the threshold.

* * *

"This is not right," Minsc muttered in the general direction his morningfeast.

" _Squeak?_ "

"No Boo," he replied to the little fellow on the table before him, who was happily nibbling his morning oats. "I do not just mean the fact that Winthrop's food is blander than before. It seems he's run out of the spices and garnishments he once put in his omelets. But what I speak of is Dynaheir's odd behavior. The red wizard is not remotely her type, nor was she ever the sort to be so flirtatious. And on top of that she always had choice words about Thayvians. Do you think the evil wizard has her bewitched?"

" _Squeak._ "

The big man frowned. "If you say. Minsc knows little of arcane matters and so-called 'prohibited schools,' but he shall take your word for it."

" _Squeak._ "

Minsc gasped. "Truly?"

" _Squeak._ "

"Well that is a _most_ unsettling thought. But why did you not mention it before? And wouldn't you have smelled it?"

" _Squeak._ "

Minsc gave his furry little friend a grim look, shaking his head slightly. "True enough." He rose to his feet, reaching down to carefully pluck the hamster from the tabletop. "We must investigate immediately then. Orders be damned!"

" _Squeak_."

He whirled and marched towards the stairs, the greatsword strapped to his back clinking against his armor. "Indeed, though I pray to the Three, and any other gods who may be listening, that you are wrong."

* * *

"There," Edwin stated, arms crossed before him. "We are free from prying eyes and such. Now what information do you have to divulge?"

The witch grinned and stepped forward. "Thou art a difficult one."

"That is another thing my tutors often told me. And I wore it as a badge of honor."

Slipping closer, Dynaheir placed a careful hand upon Edwin's elbow, her large brown eyes gleaming up at his in the filtered morning light.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Mayhaps sweetening our deal?" she replied playfully, rising on her toes and tilting her head. "Wouldst it not be far more enjoyable if I whispered my tale to you sometime later…" She clung to him, and suddenly he was keenly aware of her warm, soft body –of the scent of lavender. And of her lips nearing his. "…sometime…after…"

He opened his mouth to protest, but found no words before she closed the gap between them, her smirking lips now pressing to his. _Madness! Madness!_

His mind reeled. His body, on the other hand, responded in other ways, reflexive and instinctual. He leaned into her kiss, arms slipping around her. Soon his head was tilting in tandem with hers, his fingers were tracing along her arms, and he found himself enjoying her soft, exotic presence.

_ Madness.  _ But mayhap it was the delightful kind. The wicked, dangerous, deliriously forbidden sort. And it had been so very long.

He pressed forward, and now the only sound in the room was their shuffling feet and the soft smacking of their lips. His mind raced, along with his pulse. This could work. A strange and unexpected alliance, and together they could burn the Denak and the rest to a crisp! He was not sure if that notion, or just the feeling of this soft, exotic and forbidden beauty pressing up against him thrilled him more. Probably some combination.

Soon their hands grew more bold and familiar. She toyed with his robes –gripped his shoulder, her other hand tracing a finger along the curve of his jaw. Then she caressed his brow. His hood had fallen away.

Then, gently yet swiftly, she lifted up his…

Eyes suddenly bulging wide, Edwin disengaged and backed up. As he pressed his back to the wall and watched the witch gently set his circlet upon the bureau a flash of memory came back to him: Althena sitting up on a blood-drenched marble floor, convulsing in shock and horror as she looked down at the mangled stumps where her legs had been. She was pale as flower and would bleed out in less than a minute.

From the doorway Demina, one of Althena's roommates, had poked her head out, her eyes painted with ice-white makeup _'Ah. Odesseiron,'_ she had said. _'If I had known she was bringing you back here I would have held off on laying that trap. You're such a fool. Surely you know what happened to Petre and Overin, right in this very room.'_

He had learned his lesson then. Or so he thought. "What are you doing?" he snarled.

"Relieving thee of an item of clothing," Dynaheir said with a grin. "The first of many." She reached up to the straps of her dress. "Or shall we attend to our own?"

He just narrowed his eyes. _Not buying it._ His hands were out, fingers ready to weave the first spell.

The witch shook her head and drew in a deep breath. "Ah. You are going to make this difficult." Then, whipcord fast, her hand flicked forward and her arm _stretched_ , crossing the distance between them in less than a blink.

The moment she moved Edwin shouted out the command-word to activate this his ring. The spell-ward! That would be his opening mov-

But the word turned into a Mulhorandi curse when the magic did not flow and he looked down to find that the ring-finger of his left hand was bare.

Looking up, he saw the witch roll the ring between her fingers briefly before tossing it over her shoulder. When next she spoke her voice was _not_ human. "You have made this surprisingly difficult, fleshling." Then the Rashemi accent was back as she launched into an arcane chant, fingers cutting the air.

Edwin gasped and raced through the words of a protective ward, but it was already too late. His muscles locked in place halfway through, the air shimmering around him. As he glared at her, still as a statue, the witch stepped forward, her face paling and smoothing –turning to putty. More words came, despite her seeming to have no mouth now. They were oddly toned and sexless, reverberating both in the air and in Edwin's mind. "You impressed me. More difficult to manipulate than most male fleshlings. It required both my dexterity and the witch's magic to finally catch you." Next she –no, _it_ – reached out and gingerly slipped one bracer, and then the next, off of Edwin's wrists.

"But it's done now," the shapeshifter added, once again raising its hands. Spidery fingers stretched and stretched –tendrils more than digits– lengthening and curling towards Edwin's throat. "A good show, but your time is done primate."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've ever played the game Fallout: New Vegas you might remember that it's possible for a female player-character to seduce (and then murder) the guy who tried to kill her at the beginning of the game, complete with her saying a line a bit like: "Ladies love bad boys, and trying to kill me is about as bad as it gets." It's hilariously stupid, but also something I can kind of see Edwin, Mr. High-Inteligence-Low-Wisdom-High-Horndog, falling for under the right circumstances.
> 
> And alas, poor Dynaheir. She dies canonically, and doesn't fare much better in a lot of cannon-breaking fanfiction like this one. I actually really like Dynaheir, and she has a lot going for her. The Witches of Rashemen are just generally awesome, Dynaheir is one of the few black characters in a super-Eurocentric fantasy setting, and if I were writing a story with a good and/or magic-using protagonist Dynaheir would make a great mentor figure for them (Astrodeath's wonderful fanfic Dancing to Bhaal's Strings seems to be doing that, complete with Dynaheir and Edwin having a bit of an angel-and-devil-on-[charname's]-shoulder dynamic to them, which I think is great!)
> 
> On the other hand I will not miss trying to figure out how to write Dynaheir's Ye Olde English dialect! Yeesh!
> 
> Also: apologies to any Russian speakers reading this fic. I imagine I butchered that line.


	77. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we meet 'Koveras' once again

_ "Cross not a librarian, for they hold the keys to all lore." _ \- old Faerûnian saying

* * *

The sound of scraping stone filled Edwin's ears. Quite irritating, but preferable, he supposed, to the sensation of his windpipe being crushed.

His pulse hammered away and there was a close, claustrophobic pressure against his throat as the creature tried to strangle him, but he managed to swallow one breath after the next. If his face had not been paralyzed he would have shot the creature a mocking smile.

The elder doppelganger had anticipated almost everything –played him like a cheap harp, one might even say– but at least it had not counted on Edwin's contingency spell. For the moment a layer of stone protected his skin, and they stood at an impasse. It even seemed that there was a tinge of frustration in the creature's beady amphibian eyes. Difficult to tell.

By Edwin's estimation the paralytic spell, delivered by a mage as powerful as Dynaheir, could last well over ten minutes, which would give the shapeshifter plenty of time to figure out a different means of murder. But the spell _could_ be overcome with sufficient will. _Focus Odesseiron! Focus! You survived worse trials than this on Thaymount!_

The pressure against Edwin's neck slackened, one of the creature's ropey hands slipping off and then slinking away. That arm stretched out and with a ripple its fingers flowed together, narrowing until the hand and arm became a single sharpened edge. A living blade.

_ Come on! Move your hands! _ Edwin focused all his efforts there, trying to make a single finger twitch. If he could just move his hands and lips he could throw a blast of acid right in the creature's face.

"It appears," the doppelganger stated in its cold, toneless voice, "that I will need to make a mess here-"

Wood snapped and crashed on the other side of the room, just out of Edwin's field of vision, and a familiar voice boomed over the shapeshifter's. "Unhand the wizard, vile creature!"

Fluid and swift, the shifter turned its shoulders and head, flowing into the form of the witch once again. The sword-like arm remained, hovering in the air and ready to strike at Edwin, and 'Dynaheir' spoke in a sweetened tone: "What creature doth thou speak of?"

How transparent, talking like that and not even bothering to fully transform. It seemed the doppelganger was counting on the baboon's innate stupidity, though that was not a bad bet, in Edwin's opinion. He continued to focus his will into a single finger, _trying_ to make it twitch.

"Surely thou-" the 'witch' spoke again, but she was cut off by a deep roar that echoed through the room. It came in the form of one word, shouted with all the fury that only a trained Rashemi berserker could channel, rattling the windows and making even the elder doppelganger take a step back.

" **MON-STER!** " Minsc bellowed, and then a streak of steel and muscle entered Edwin's vision and collided with the creature wearing Dynaheir's face. The shifter managed to catch Minsc's overhanded slash with its arm-blade, parrying, though the ridged flesh of its limb parted a bit from the blow and flecks of black ichor dribbled down. It gave ground, flowing and dancing backward as it fully returned to Dynaheir's shape.

That didn't placate Minsc one bit. He had his eyes focused on the monster, and there was no other thought to it. He swung, it ducked low under the whistling steel, and then another blinding slash forced the creature to jump and hobble, a shallow gash opening across its stomach and splattering the floor with more black blood.

'Dynaheir' flung her hands forward and intoned something quick and sharp at the berserker, the air quivering before her and the whole room suddenly shaking with a thunder-clap. It almost knocked Edwin's stiff body over, and he cringed at the sound: a sonic attack, obviously.

Normally such a spell would have someone clapping their hands at their ears and screaming in pain, but Minsc just staggered back a step. He was shaking it off when 'Dynaheir' backed fully against the bedroom window.

Minsc recovered and lifted his greatsword up again as the shifter's arms blurred and turned into blades, but instead of attacking the berserker it pushed _backwards_ , the window behind it exploding in a shower of wood and glass. It then leaned back and simply fell through the gap it had created, disappearing, and without hesitation Minsc howled and charged, leaping through the window after his foe.

_ The creature will not be damaged by the fall _ , Edwin realized, _having no bones. A clever manner of retreat, given a normal foe._ Of course Edwin remembered exactly how effective a great fall was against that hardheaded madman.

Alone in the room now, he again tried to focus on breaking the spell. But time ticked away without him so much as twitching. _Bah!_

Eventually his attempts where interrupted by another intruder, streaking in like a comet of violet and pink. She dashed heedlessly into his field of vision and looked him over, bending forward. "What's all this ruckus about?" the girl asked. When Edwin failed to answer she cocked her head and inspecting him some more, reaching out and giving him a poke.

_ Bah! Deduce what has occurred from your surroundings, imbecile!  _

The round little innkeep came waddling in not too far behind the girl, and Edwin waited for the predictable, droll joke the man would inevitably make, fighting on against the paralysis. Yet the little innkeeper remained silent.

In the meantime the spritely girl had turned towards the shattered window. She bent down, peering out. "Sheesh! You threw Minsc out didn't you? Again!" Whirling, she stomped her foot. "I just knew it! I knew you'd get up to your old tricks! But Dynaheir froze you huh? So where is she?"

Behind her the fat little man stayed silent, and there was a strangely serene look on his face, rather than his usual mirth. _Shouldn't he be joining in with a joke?_ But he just seemed to be standing there above his-

_ Odd _ , Edwin realized. Winthrop was a diminutive little man, nearly as short as his adopted daughter, yet now he seemed to be looming over her. Almost…stretching.

No! Definitely! The little man was stretching and pulling something between his balled fists. A garrote rope! Edwin tried to lean in and forward, fighting his paralysis, while Imoen just gave him a curious look. _Notice, damn it!_

Good. She seemed to see that Edwin was twitching.

Bad though, that the doppelganger behind her lunged and sliced down with the rope, pressing it to her neck and then twisting it tightly before she could wriggle away.

* * *

Gorion's old chambers were exactly as Ashura had remembered them, utilitarian like most of the monk's quarters but stocked a bit better. Father had cherished his reference books and his writing implements, his desk piled high and cluttered, and the chair in front of it where he had spent the majority of his time was well-stuffed. The bedroom's single window overlooked the gardens, and above the bed hung a lush painting of an overgrown, sun-dappled forest. 'The Wealdath,' Gorion had once told her when she had asked about the picture. 'The great forest of the wild elves, to the south.'

With careful deliberation Tethtoril knelt beside the desk and eased a loose stone out of the wall. He then leaned close to the hidden cubbyhole, whispered a word, and reached in. A little rummaging, and then he pulled out a thick, sealed envelope. He then began to carefully right himself and rise, nodding appreciatively to Garrick when he slipped in to help the elderly man to his feet. 

“Thank you young one,” he told the bard, offering the envelope to Ashura. It was marked with her name."We have not yet needed to use this space," the First Reader continued, pointing to the strongbox at the foot of the bed. "So your father’s effects have been left untouched. I understand that he left something for you in that chest.” With that the Tethtoril turned and quietly excused himself.

As Ashura sat down on the edge of the bed and broke the wax of the envelope Garrick gave her a nervous look. "Should I give you some…" he began, but she reached out and grasped his hand, dragging him to the bed beside her.

"Sit." She told him, pulling out the pile of papers contained in the envelope, along with a tiny silver key. "You can read it too, if you want. I trust you." Her eyes turned to the first page.

_ 'My Child, _

_ I hope that you are reading this after I have already explained all of the thorny details of your lineage and fostering, as I always promised you (and myself) that I would. It is possible, however, that I have not, or that I have perished before I had the chance. It has always been a very difficult subject, and I hope that by writing this down I can make it easier. _

_ So, let us get right to the point. Your mother, as you have probably intuited, was very dear to me. Her name was Alianna Velnatch, an assassin in the employ of the Harpers for many years, and a priestess of Bhaal. Scandalous, some might think, but the Harpers have always utilized assassins when necessary, and your mother and I were partnered through many a mission. _

The letter went on to tell the story of how Gorion and Alianna had met, both on the hunt for the same target, and then on into their many adventures along with Jaheira, Khalid, and various other Harpers and hirelings. There seemed to be a wistful tone to it all, detailing what were likely some of the happier times in the old sage's life. And delaying the more painful revelations, it seemed.

_ Alianna was also the mother of my only child. Your half-brother, I suppose, but unfortunately the babe was stillborn. Your mother and I drifted apart after that. I greatly regret not doing more to hold what I thought of as my family together, but there it is. She disappeared entirely at one point, and I thought she was gone for good, but she returned to Silverymoon a year later, visibly pregnant. _

_ I would later learn that your father was…well, I wish there was an easier way to put this. Your father was the Lord of Murder himself. Bhaal. _

Ashura read on, slow and deliberate, and the account grew terse and carefully worded. Alianna had disappeared again, and Gorion had wished to just let go, but eventually he was ordered by his superior's to track the priestess down, uncovering a temple of Bhaal that was hidden away in the Reaching Woods.

_ 'You were far too young to remember, a babe of three we guessed, but at that temple you and several other Children of Bhaal were gathered to take part in an initiation ritual. There was a confrontation between our group of Harpers and the cultists, and a battle ensued. Your mother did not survive.' _

Jaheira had mentioned something of that hadn't she? ' _The last mission was an assault on a temple of Bhaal. Grim business that. They were sacrificing children.'_ Ashura read on.

_ 'The temple was badly damaged in the battle, and we were forced to make a quick escape, but we managed to rescue two of the Bhaalspawn children in the process, both toddlers of roughly the same age. You were one of them, and the other…' _

Her eyes widened. _Oh gods._

_ '…is the fellow orphan who has always been at your side within these halls. Your sister in truth. Imoen is a child of Bhaal.' _

_ Nine bloody Hells!  _ Her stomach suddenly tied in knots, Ashura laid the papers down in her lap. She knew the prophesies well enough, after studying them with Koveras. The Children of Bhaal, destined to slay each other.

Feldpost's Inn came flashing back to her. Imoen, blank-faced and under a charm, turning on her with her bow, point-blank. Ashura had been at a loss. That arrow had nearly killed her.

"You okay?" Garrick asked.

"No," Ashura whispered. Lifting the page, she read on.

* * *

Gasping loudly, Edwin _finally_ lurched forward, rubbing his wrists and scowling. The girl was kicking wildly in front of him, voice cut off by the garrote rope and hoisted bodily by the towering, blank-faced creature behind her.

Still, by Edwin's estimation she had a few minutes left to live. An imperfect method of murder, strangulation. It takes so very long to carry out, and there are plenty of things that can go wrong in the process. Of course it was obvious _why_ the face-shifters preferred to kill this way: it left less of a trace and kept the victim's clothing intact.

Watching the girl's feet wheel in the air, Edwin pondered his next move. Would it be more prudent to simply wait for the doppelganger to finish its work and _then_ destroy it? This girl treated him as an enemy after all. On the other hand if he _did_ save her life she would owe him, as would her companions. And allies would be useful if this citadel really was full of these damned things.

"Tempting to just leave you like this," Edwin stated, fingers twirling, "after the way you treated me earlier." He _would_ rescue her, he decided, but he at least had to rub it in first.

Imoen had been struggling with the rope, but now her hands pulled away, one shooting down to her waist and managing to grasp the dagger there. At the same time she raised her other hand in front of her and turned it in Edwin's direction, raising a single finger in an obscene gesture common here in the Western Heartlands. Her dagger shot up from its sheath and she made an attempt to slice at the rope, but the creature shook her, throwing off her aim.

A little stream of blood trickled down the girl's cheek, though the rope frayed slightly. Determined, Imoen gripped the dagger tight and got ready to slice again.

Cringing, Edwin swiftly raised his hands and began a hasty incantation. It would be the worst possible outcome if the girl actually managed to rescue herself! Between his twirling fingers a green glow took shape, swiftly resolving into a bolt of sizzling acid. The girl was thrashing around a lot, but hopefully she wouldn't catch the spell or be splashed. (And if she ended up melting along with the doppelganger…oh well.)

Edwin's wrist flicked forward and the sizzling bolt streaked through the air, arcing slightly over the girl's head and cleanly splashing against the shapeshifter's face. The creature immediately let go and stumbled backwards, hands flying up only to be burned. The front portion of its head caved in a moment later, melting swiftly thanks to the metamagic that had empowered the spell, and then the shapeshifter simply collapsed in a floppy heap.

The girl was rubbing her bruised neck and coughing when Edwin stepped past her, looking down at the twitching grey thing. "Your time is done, invertebrate," he stated in a mocking tone.

"I'm not counting that as a rescue," Imoen finally managed to rasp out. "Would'a freed myself in a second."

"Bah!" Edwin scoffed, walking to the broken window and looking out. The false-witch and the berserker were gone, though there were smoking holes in dirt. Signs of battle. Whirling, Edwin started for the door.

The girl was standing over the dead shapeshifter now. "What in the Hells was that thing doing in my dad's clothes?" she rasped. "And with his…his face…"

"Probably stole them." _(…from his corpse.)_ Edwin almost said the last part aloud, but restrained himself. Now that he had expended a spell to rescue the girl he needed her functional.

And who knew, perhaps the fat little innkeeper was still alive. There were more important matters at hand right now, however. "The leader of these doppelgangers is impersonating the Rashemi witch," Edwin explained. " _It_ was the one that froze me, before the barbarian ran it off." He gestured. "Come! We must give chase."

* * *

_ 'Shocking, I know,'  _ Gorion's letter continued, _'that one as sunny and kind as your sister might carry such a dark secret in her blood. But it is a sign, I have always felt, that the two of you can lead lives as normal human women. Blood is not destiny, and there is nothing inherently evil about either of you._

_ 'That being said, circumstances may soon force you to leave this safe, normal life I have tried to provide. One of your brothers has recently visited the citadel and discovered your presence here, though I have reason to believe he is unaware of Imoen. If he makes a move against you we will be forced to flee. I only hope that I have time to explain all of this to you in person.  _

_ 'Regardless, know that I have always loved you, and that I kept much of this from you out of a need to protect. Overprotect, some might say, and I know you have always chafed at the life here in the citadel. I see much of your mother in you, child: headstrong and fierce.  _

_ 'The key included with this letter will unlock my strongbox, where you will find some of Alianna's effects, left behind the last time she fled Silverymoon. Her cloak bears a powerful, protective enchantment, and it saw her through many a battle. Though I believe that when you look upon it you will realize why I was hesitant to give you this heirloom until now. What you do with it is your choice. _

_ 'All my love, _

_ Gorion Adrian.' _

A little puzzled, Ashura slipped off of the bed and bent over the chest that rested at its foot. The key slipped in smoothly and turned, and when she opened the strongbox and lifted the piece of fabric out of it she instantly saw what her father had meant. Alianna's old cloak was really more of a narrow cape, woven from soft silk but strengthened by enchantments. Gold and black, with a little red, the back of the cape clearly depicted the grinning skull and swirling tears of Bhaal's holy symbol.

She stood and stared at the cloak for a long time, eventually folding the fabric up and securing it under her belt. Next she examined the rest of the chest, pulling out what appeared to be Alianna's old jewelry box. There were earrings, bracelets, anklets, and a fine set of mahogany combs. Since Gorion had not mentioned it, she guessed that none of the jewelry was enchanted, but she slipped the box under her arm nonetheless.

She'd at least use the combs.

* * *

Racing down the stairs, through the taproom, and then out the door, Imoen barely avoided slamming into Edwin's back, skidding to a stop. The red mage had halted just past the threshold, stiff and tense.

"So where'd they go?" Imoen asked, glancing around. Should they take a left or a right around the great inner wall? Or had Minsc chased the creature through the inner gate?

Edwin raised a hand. "A conjured shadow should be able to track them. One moment and I shall-"

A sharp _crack-BOOM_ that reverberated off the walls of the inner fortress cut him off, followed by a long, low rumble that Imoen felt in the soles of her feet. Edwin lowered his hand. "Or we can follow the sounds of destruction, I suppose." He started for the inner gate, working his way up to a brisk jog.

Taking off after the Thayan, Imoen swiftly overtook him thanks to her enchanted boots (and the fact that he seemed determined not to work up a sweat), unslinging her bow from her shoulder as she neared the gate. She went low as she zipped into the courtyard, on the lookout for more lightning bolts.

There was smoke rising from a shattered flower pot at the edge of one of the stone-lined gardens, along with scorch marks on the walkway. The giant Rashemi berserker stood above those, wisps rising from holes in his shoulder-guard, though he seemed more agitated than injured, his greatsword still thrust up into the air. "Give back Dynaheir's face, fiend!" he bellowed as he waved his blade, but his opponent –the Rashemi witch– floated far out of reach, hovering a good fifteen feet up in the air as her hands wove through her next spell.

Imoen drew her arrow back until her bow creaked and took aim, holding her breath, but with the witch in her sights she paused. _What if this is some trick? It_ was _the red wizard who-_

In the space of a blink ice-crystals appeared and grew between Dynaheir's palms, forming a jagged spike. It floated in the air momentarily, then with a violent swing she flung it in Minsc's direction. At the same time Imoen let her arrow fly, cursing her own hesitation.

It was all a bit pointless in the end: a violet shimmer erupted around the witch and repelled the arrow. Of _course_ she'd have one of those _arrowshield_ spells up! Dynaheir's spike of enchanted ice met no barriers, however, striking Minsc square in the torso and doubling him over.

"What in Corelon's name is going on?!" a familiar voice asked from behind. Xan's sword was glowing something fierce, held high in the air as he scurried over a flowerbed, and the cloaked figure of Viconia edged along the wall behind him, along with several Watchers who were rushing to the scene.

"It's Dynaheir!" Imoen shouted back, aiming another (useless) arrow at the floating witch. "She's a doppelganger! Throw all your magic at her! Now!"

"Are you sure? This sounds like some-"

"No time ta- oh shit!" The witch's gaze had shifted towards Imoen, fingers pointing as she wove another spell. Little eldritch will-o-wisps winked into existence all around Dynaheir and swelled with power as she chanted. A basic attack-spell, but there was powerful metamagic being poured into it, and soon the arcane wisps glowed bright as tiny suns.

" _Fiel siev faeda!_ " Imoen intoned, quick as she could, weaving and bobbing as light expanded from where she had been standing and resolved into four duplicate Imoens. The decoys scattered out from her position, and when the searing bolts of energy raced down at the witch's command they slowed and bobbed a bit, as if confused. In the end all of them streaked through the illusions, exploding into harmless sparks. _Whew!_

The attack was more than enough to end Xan's hesitation, his hand swinging decisively in the witch's direction as he chanted out a spell. A bolt of blinding white light streaked out from his fingertip, and when it reached Dynaheir it briefly warred with the arcane auras that surrounded her. Then, in a burst of sparks, it all broke apart and the witch came plummeting down, arms flailing uselessly just before she struck the flagstones. She bounced, rolled, bounced again, and then to Imoen's amazement the witch simply righted herself and shot to her feet. ( _Oh yeah. Those things don't have any bones._ )

Minsc had risen as well, and with a roar he ripped out the shard of ice and tossed it aside, the wound apparently superficial. Swinging his sword up, the berserker rushed the witch with blinding speed while Imoen reflexively knocked and drew another arrow, but in the same instant Dynaheir thrust her open hands forward and murmured something. A rosy-pink shimmer bloomed in the air between the witch and the warrior, congealing into a translucent wall of force.

Imoen's arrow and Minsc's sword both reverberated harmlessly off the barrier, and a heartbeat later a streak of eldritch bolts shattered into sparks against it as well, accompanied by a curse in Mulhorandi from Edwin.

The force-wall stretched between the edges of two fountains, so Imoen jumped up onto the lip of one of them and skirted round, running on the edge. On the other side of the hastily conjured wall Dynaheir had begun to retreat, and as Imoen came around the bend the witch accelerated suddenly, her feet pattering against the stone path with magically enhanced speed. The moment Imoen cleared the wall she aimed her bow and let an arrow fly, but it went wide of the moving target by a pace or two and clattered against stone.

Plucking another arrow, Imoen knocked and drew, leaping from the fountain's edge and running all the while. Her enchanted boots let her match the witch's speed, zooming through the garden. She hopped up onto the edge of the next fountain, hoping to get a clearer shot on high ground, and let fly.

This arrow struck true, sinking deep into the witch's lower back and staggering her as she started up the steps to the inner keep. The sound that came out of Dynaheir's mouth was an inhuman groan, and for a moment her face went grey and her hair seemed to congeal and flow.

_ Yeah, definitely a doppel, if there was any doubt before. _

But when the 'witch' whirled around she'd regained her normal pallor, and she glared down harshly from the steps. Hands thrusting forward, she wove them together, hissing out Draconic words with a Rashemi accent; a perfect mimic. Flickering flames gathered and roiled between her palms, and with a push she sent the ball of flame streaking towards Imoen like a comet.

At the same time Imoen _dove_ , and the surface of the fountain-pool smacked her hard, belly-flopping and then wriggling down as deep as she could. Water gurgled in her ears, then roared as heat and pressure struck her back and crushed her against the slimy floor of the fountain. Her arms flailed, eyes clinched tight as she kept to the cool bottom of the pool, childhood memories coming back of all the times she and the others had played in these fountains; a make-do swimming hole in the hottest days of summer, back when they were tiny enough to fit. Ulraunt had always been really annoyed and chased them out whenever he caught them.

It had been a bit easier to pretend the fountain was a proper pool when she was six, though just as she had back then Imoen found herself frog-paddling forward, swiftly reaching the opposite side and daring a look over the edge. Steam hissed behind her and there was a glow from the dissipating flames, but she didn't _feel_ burnt. Ahead of her Minsc was racing to the steps of the keep, and the door at the top was slowly gliding shut.

Fighting the water and the weight of her sodden clothes, Imoen pushed her way up onto the fountain's edge, made sure that she was not on fire, and then scooted up onto her feet. By then Xan, Viconia, and Edwin had reached her side, and without a word they all raced for the stairs, in the wake of the furious giant.

Bursting past the double doors, their footsteps echoed through the normally silent halls like trampling elephants. Minsc was the loudest of all, but he paid his surroundings no mind, eyes only on the black blood that speckled the tiles and formed a trail through the library. They went down one row of shelves, then another and another, Minsc leaning forward like a bloodhound as the robed scholars he passed gave him bewildered looks.

"Why in blazes was that madwoman slingin' spells about?" a low voice demanded from behind. "What's going on?"

Imoen turned back to see Sergeant Reevor stomping towards them, flanked by Hull and a second Watcher named Jondalar. "It's okay!" Imoen began. "Well, it's not okay. Nothing's okay. There's doppelgangers in the keep! One was pretending to be Winthrop. You guys have to go check on him! And this one that we're chasing was pretending to be Dynaheir, and it's an elder doppel with all her powers! That black ichor-stuff on the floor is its blood!"

"Are you…is this…" Fuller stammered as he approached from the opposite side, stepping in beside his fellow Watchers. They all looked down at the trail Minsc had been following.

"Bloody Hells," Reevor muttered.

"And it has someone's…powers?" Hull asked.

"Yup. Dynaheir's," Imoen explained. "The Rashemi witch who's been visiting. It can cast her-"

"She is an invoker, capable of channeling spells up to the fifth circle of power," Edwin cut in. "(Though she is incapable of using illusions or necromancy, so she will at least remain visible.)"

"Bloody Hells," Reevor repeated, shaking his head. The other watchers seemed to share the sentiment.

* * *

Head down and mind racing, Ashura stumbled out of her father's old chambers. There were two men stomping through the nearby hall, muttering to each other. "What in the Hells is going on in that courtyard?" one voice asked.

"Spellwork," the other replied. "I'd know a lightning spell anywhere, even muffled. There's some sort of battle going on down there."

"The Knights will be nervous. We'd best…" But the man's voice trailed off and the footfalls came to a sudden halt.

Ashura turned to face them, though she guessed what she had stumbled into even before she looked. _Beshaba's breath!_

Before her stood a tall, scowling Turami man in rich green silks, an ornate and obviously enchanted staff braced in his hand. The man's carefully groomed hair and narrow goatee were mostly grey, speckled here and there with brown, and an air of assumed command seemed to hang about him. Slightly behind the Turami stood an armored warrior of middle years, with a big meat-slab of a face and a scowl to match.

A Turami mage with grey hair. Going by Duke Eltan's description this could only be one man, and he certainly seemed to recognize Ashura as well. "You!" Rieltar Anchev growled, and Ashura's hand shot to the hilt of Varscona. For a moment it seemed that an attack was inevitable.

_ If the next words out of his mouth are Draconic… _

Ashura's eyes narrowed and she tensed, ready to spring. It was a narrow passageway, and Rieltar only stood a few paces away. She could clear that in a blink.

The armored man looked ready to draw his blade as well, and Garrick was no longer at Ashura's side. Sensing hostility, the bard had eased around and out of the way, with his back to a wall and his hand at his vest, near where he kept a wand with a paralytic enchantment. _Good._

But the next words out of Rieltar Anchev's mouth were slow and carefully measured. "You've stalked me to this hallowed place then? Plotting my murder, of course."

"Nah," Ashura replied. "Just heard they had the world's biggest collection of Drizzt the Drow chapbooks here, and I had to see for myself."

"You Harpers have dogged me for months now," Rieltar went on, ignoring the sarcasm. "From Nashkel to the Sharp Teeth to the Cloakwood. And you've fended off my…attempts to end your interference as well." It was a carefully measured way of saying 'my assassins.'

Ashura cocked her head. "Harpers?"

"Come now. I think we're above such silly games. I have my resources, and once I learned who had attacked my operations I did some digging. Ashura _Adrian_. Your father was a Harper, and raised you and that other girl in these very halls. Groomed you for just this sort of mission, I'm guessing. And I assume that bard" –he eyed Garrick– "is an agent as well. And you've allied with a Greycloak. All quite impressive, and if we were on any other grounds I would make a move to do something about-"

"But you _killed_ my father…" She had meant to shout those words. To accuse. But it didn't quite come out that way. Something didn't add up.

"Now why in the name of Mask would I do _that_? Assassinate a Harper? It would invite a viper's nest of…" Rieltar looked down, eyes flicking from side to side as he pondered the matter. "Ah. I see. We've been set up. The Zhents most likely. Yes…this seems like their doing, and quite clever. Eliminate one of the more powerful Harper agents in the region, and lay the blame at my feet. The man's friends and kin come around seeking vengeance, and whoever dies in the fighting, the Zhents win."

Ashura just glared, and when Rieltar met her eyes again he sighed. "I suppose it's past time for any sort of truce though," he went on. "Too much blood spilled, regardless of who set this in motion. So. Are you going to draw that blade of yours or what?"

"There's been peace in Candlekeep for centuries," Ashura replied reflexively; words that her father and her tutors had drilled into her over the years. As far as she knew the men she had killed in the bunkhouse were the first violent deaths within the Citadel in generations.

"Indeed," Rieltar agreed. "Enforced by wards, the Watchers, and divinations that determine the aggressor should a fight ever break out. It is a peace that _I_ will not break, little girl. But give me the slightest excuse and I'll turn you inside out with a single spell."

Big words. But Ashura knew that if she unsheathed and lunged, Rieltar's first spell would be something defensive. Garrick would freeze the bodyguard with his wand, and then it would just be a matter of whether she could connect first, or if her enchanted blade would cut through whatever barrier Rieltar managed to fling up.

There was a long silence. Then Ashura eased back and forced her hand to slide away from Varscona's hilt. "I won't break the peace," she said. "Not here."

Rieltar inclined his head slightly, and began to back away. "Good. I imagine you'll be seeking to choose the ground when next we meet. I shall do the same. And Beshaba's blessings to you." He whirled, and the armored man followed. "Come," Ashura heard him mutter as they made a swift exit. "We've a meeting to attend."

* * *

Roaring, Minsc pulled at the wrought iron door, but it didn't budge. Next he tried kicking.

"Don't do that," Hull commanded, half-heartedly. He obviously didn't want to get between the big guy and his goal.

"Then open the door!" Minsc demanded. "The monster went beyond!"

They had zigzagged their way through most of the lower floor of the grand library, searching for the shapeshifter and following a diminishing trail of its blood. At one point they had stumbled into a room where the witch's jewelry, clothing, and the arrow had all been discarded in a sodden pile, a chest full of monk's clothing opened nearby, making it clear that the creature had changed. From there the blood had dwindled as well, the creature obviously having bandaged its wound, but somehow Minsc (and Boo) always seemed to find a trail.

At last it had led them here, to another small side-chamber with a heavy, sealed door, which led to the catacombs beneath the keep.

"We can do that," Reevor explained cautiously, standing back from the raging barbarian. "But - and I don't think you're going to like this, big guy - it's going to have to be us Watchers who go down there. Just us."

Minsc glared. "I must slay the creature! I must rescue my witch!"

"Sorry," Reevor muttered, pulling a runemarked stone out of a pouch at his belt. "I'd love to take a mighty fellow like you along, but there's only so many wardstones to go around." He waved the stone close to the door, and with a click it began to slide open. "Now stand back, unless ya want to get blasted by the wards." The three other guards followed as the dwarf slipped through the doorway. "This here's Watcher business now, but I promise we'll get that creature for you."

Minsc seemed to deflate as he watched the four guardsmen march into the open tunnel and shut the door behind them, but he did not interfere.

_ 'I must rescue my witch!'  _ Imoen shook her head. _He doesn't really get it, does he?_ Well, she sure didn't want to be the one to tell him. She looked down, fidgeting with her bow. One of those things had been wearing her father's clothes. And his face.

She felt sick.

* * *

"Well that went terribly," Ashura grumbled.

"Yeah," Garrick agreed. He lowered his voice. "I think the chance of us staging an…an A-word just flew out the window."

Chuckling, Ashura began down the staircase. "If my father really was 'grooming' me to become some sort of elite Harper spy he sure did a piss-poor job." She shook her head. "Maybe that was some ruse, but it really did seem like Rieltar was missing something there."

"You think the Zhentarim really set all of this up?" Garrick asked.

"Maybe. Or-" Eyes widening, Ashura came to a sudden halt at the foot of the stair. "Oh," was all she managed to say as her eyes settled on a familiar figure, standing in the middle of the isle several paces ahead. There he loomed, resting against an oaken staff, clad in his brown robe and wearing a knowing grin. When Koveras' eyes met Ashura's they twinkled with recognition. And malice.

Since last she'd seen him the scholar had shaved his head, and he now wore a tattoo above his brow; a crisscross of abstract lines, no doubt arcane in nature. Ashura recognized that as well: she had caught a glimpse of the same tattoo, half-concealed by the horned helmet of the warrior who had slain her father.

Time slowed to a crawl as she took a step forward, everything clicking into place at once. It was him! It had been him all along! Koveras. _'One of your brothers has recently visited the citadel and discovered your presence here…'_

Gripping Varscona's hilt, Ashura took another step forward. Then another.

"I'm surprised that you chose not to kill my father," Koveras stated with a sneer.

_ That voice!  _ That unmistakable, mocking, rumbling voice. She should have recognized him that night, but he had been clad head to toe in armor. And his eyes had been glowing.

"I suppose-" Koveras went on, but whatever taunt he had prepared was drowned out by Ashura's wordless cry of rage as she dropped Alianna's jewelry box, slipped her swords from their sheathes and _charged._

He matched her warcry with a deep, rumbling laugh, casually swinging his staff up to deflect her blades. That **damned** mocking smile of his never left his face as he knocked Ashura's overhanded blow aside, and in the same motion he spun his staff, sweeping the stab from Ashura's lefthand weapon away from his body as well.

As he parried with his staff Koveras backed up, swinging and weaving with the same blinding speed he had displayed two years ago in their sparring matches. Wood-shavings flew as Ashura gave chase, slashing again and again. _Bastard! You bastard!_

He didn't bother to counterattack. Instead Koveras casually gave ground, untouched by every frantic slash and stab that Ashura could deliver, and through it all he continued to laugh. Even as bookshelves overturned around them, thick leather-bound tombs striking his shoulder and back, Koveras simply laughed. Even when Garrick threw a blast of paralyzing magic with his wand, Koveras just laughed right through, the arcane shimmer rolling harmlessly off of him as his tattoo briefly glowed.

And even as Varscona cleaved through his staff and left him wielding two splintered sticks, the rumble of Koveras' laughter resounded through the library, along with the heavy footfall of armored figures racing towards them. Armed only with those two broken clubs, he still managed to bat her swords aside, bobbing and weaving out of harm's way.

Ashura had almost sliced through his last defense when the first blow struck her leg from behind and her knee buckled. She straightened, pushing forward with a snarl, but more blows followed, and soon metal-clad bodies were pressing in close to her, hands gripping her arms and shoulders.

She squirmed and twisted, desperately pointing her swords at the smirking man before her. One of the Watcher's steel-tipped staves struck her gut and she doubled over, coughing, but when she shot back up and regained her breath she managed another howl of rage, thrashing and desperate to pull away from the hands that gripped her.

"LET ME GO! It's him! It's him! You have to-" A staff struck her helmet, steel rang, and everything started to spin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might come off as a little 'gamey,' but I just had to make Edwin a giant munchkin who knows exactly what level Dynaheir is and what her prohibited schools are. He probably knows what metamagic feats she's taken too.
> 
> And I owe the inspiration for a line towards the beginning of this chapter to Celamity.


	78. Accusations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein a jailbreak is staged

_ "I say kill it with fire!"  _ –Qara of Neverwinter

* * *

A knock at the door drew Skie out of the pages of her book. Reluctantly she closed the covers and placed it in her lap, though she kept a finger between the pages to keep her place. "Yes?"

She expected to hear the voice of a servant, but it was her own mother who spoke through the door, stiff and formal as always. "You've a guest dear."

Frowning, Skie rose from her chair and laid her novel aside. She had been enjoying the story; the tale of a young half-goblin unexpectedly thrust onto the throne of a fictitious elven empire. If she was ever to become a grand duchess herself it would be important to read as much on the subject of rulership as possible, fiction or not.

And now real-life 'courtly manners' might be called for. A guest? Was it another suitor? She fretted before the standing mirror, uncertain whether she was anywhere close to presentable. Adjusting her hair and straightening her dress, she shrugged. _Good enough._ She had looked far worse on the road, at least.

When Skie opened the door she found Lady Brilla Silvershield just beyond the threshold, and behind her stood a shorter woman with blond hair done up in a tight bun. The stranger wore a plain but elegant coat and dress, all various shades of austere grey.

Lady Brilla inclined her head. "Good afternoon, my dearest."

Skie curtsied. "Mother."

Turning, Lady Brilla gestured towards the guest. "Allow me to introduce Mrs. Kay Goldsworth, an accomplished courtier, learned scholar, and tutor to young women of noble birth. She is the new governess we spoke of."

Suddenly Skie felt a strong urge to squirm, her eyes widening and her cheeks blazing. _Spoke of?_ She had assumed that had just been a passing barb. "A…a governess? Mother, I am not a child…" She struggled to keep her voice even, close to squeaking out the words. She also struggled not to look over at the desk where she kept Imoen's little gift in a hidden compartment.

Lady Brilla cleared her throat. "I could comment, but I shall refrain. Suffice it to say that after your recent _behavior_ we felt it necessary to insure that you still remember how a proper lady should act."

Skie straightened. "I can assure you, mother-"

"I am not the one you need convince." Lady Brilla stepped aside and the stiff, blonde woman marched into the room, chin high. "If the term 'governess' offends you, then let us call her a 'monitor,' here to watch you walk the straight and narrow, and correct you if necessary. Understood?"

"Yes mother," Skie agreed.

Her long skirts swishing, Lady Brilla took her leave, and once she had disappeared down the hallway Mrs. Goldsworth carefully turned to the door and slid it shut. When she turned back to the Skie the stern look on her face slipped away. "Bit of a character, isn't she?" the woman asked with a slight grin.

Skie frowned. Was this some test? "Mother is quite diligent in her duties," she stated diplomatically.

Mrs. Goldsworth rolled her eyes. "You don't need to be a stiff little golem around me, dear. I'm not here to be charmed by your courtly manners, only to ensure that you know how to act the part." She gave Skie a conspiratory smile. "That's all it is, after all. Acting. I was a bit of a performer once. It's how I got into this line of work."

"Oh. I see."

"And don't worry. I won't swat you with a stick to make sure your posture's right or any of that. Hm." She strode forward and circled Skie, giving her a quick inspection. "Lovely posture in any case. And your diction seems proper. So we'll just do a little roleplaying to get started; see if you know the correct terms and curtseys to use when interacting with people of various stations. It should be simple enough." She reached out, giving Skie a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Let's be friends."

Though she felt a little overwhelmed, Skie forced a smile. "Alright."

* * *

The scrape of steel and the groan of old hinges jolted Ashura awake. She came to with a lurch that made her manacles bite into her wrists, and the disorientation –coupled with stabbing pain– had her struggling for a moment, blind and straining against the short chains.

Another lurch, and then a violent jerk. She fell back and hit the wall hard, scraping against the stone.

It took a few moments of blinking in the dim, diffuse light for everything to come back to her. Being beaten with staves, bound, and then beaten some more. Being dragged, sometimes stumbling and sometimes scraping the floor, through the halls and gardens of the citadel as consciousness faded in and out. Eventually she had found herself sitting here on straw and hardwood, stripped down to her padded tunic and leggings and chained to the wall.

She had been aching then, but it was even worse now that she had awakened. _Gods_ were her arms and legs stiff, and every shift or twitch brought on more pain. Her pulse hammered at her temples and eardrums when she forced herself to hold still, head too heavy for her body and aching like Loviator's favorite chew toy.

The barracks house. That's where they had taken her. The broad building where beds and storage chests lined the wall and some of the Watchers slept in shifts, with the mess table in the center and the single prison cell nestled in the back. In all her time in Candlekeep Ashura had never seen the cell occupied.

Garrick had been there too, when they had first chained her up, sitting on the straw and giving her a forlorn look. He had not been roughed up or bound in any way. Now he sat in about the same spot, facing the cell door and watching a figure in pink and violet stumble in.

"Alright, alright," Imoen complained. "I'm goin'!" Xan entered close behind her without any fuss. The Greycloak's outer robes were gone, along with his scabbard and moonblade, and Imoen was missing her boots, belt and pouches. Seemed the Watchers had been meticulous in removing their weapons, enchanted items, and any other equipment that might be considered dangerous.

Imoen and Xan turned and backed further into the cell, watching the guards haul the last prisoner through the doorway. Viconia's wrists and ankles were bound, and a stream of drow curses were flying from her lips as she tumbled in and toppled over, hitting the floor with a snarl of pain and fury followed by more curses. She wriggled franticly, stirring the straw, and Imoen rushed in and knelt at her side to steady her.

"Should gag her too," the Watcher who had tossed Viconia in complained. "Damn drow tried to bite my face off." A much older man in heavy plate had stepped into the doorway beside the guard, and now he placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"No need to," the Gatewarden stated calmly, shaking his head. "And don't judge her too harshly. Among her kind imprisonment means a fate you do _not_ want to imagine." Taking a step further into the cell, the captain of the Candlekeep Guard surveyed them all, his staff planted against the floor. "Unlike the Underdark, this is a civilized place. We do _not_ torture or execute prisoners." He met Viconia's eyes. "And provided you cause no further trouble we will treat you as well as we can. Given the circumstances."

Now he looked to Ashura, and she found her eyes shifting down and away from his sad gaze. "You realize that you are only in those chains because you resisted arrest?"

"Yeah," she admitted. "Sorry." _Damn. 'I don't want to disappoint the old man.' And here we are._ Steadying herself, Ashura forced her gaze to meet the Gatewarden's and stay level. "But that man I was fighting. He killed my father."

That took the Gatewarden by surprise. "That's…quite an accusation. Koveras? The scholar? You believe he…murdered Gorion?"

"Sarevok Anchev," she corrected him, tone defiant. "That's his real name. Rieltar Anchev's son and the heir to the Iron Throne merchant coster. And I _saw_ him kill Gorion."

She had hoped the conviction in her voice and gaze would have some effect, but the odd look the Gatewarden gave her was unexpected. He seemed puzzled, and then almost…angry. "Is this some sort of game you're playing?" When she furrowed her brow at him his voice just rose. "Some intrigue you've brought to our door? I never thought _you_ would be capable of something like that."

"What are you talking about?"

"You _do_ realize that the two of you," he glanced at Imoen as he spoke, "stand accused of the murders of Rieltar Anchev and Brunos Costak, don't you? Their bodies were found in the grand hall moments after your capture, and Koveras claims that you attacked him because he witnessed you fleeing the scene."

Now it was Ashura's turn to be taken aback.

* * *

"Oh. I get it," Imoen groaned. "'Koveras' is just 'Sarevok' spelled backwards. How stupid is that?"

She was still examining the steel box that covered the lock to their prison, though it had become obvious that she couldn't simply pick it. At first glance the holding cell looked dingy and simple, but Candlekeep had been built on magic and ingenuity. There was some sort of anti-magic effect placed upon the whole interior of the cell, and the only lock was a Gondish clockwork-contraption, sealed in a glyphed box that would only respond to the wardstones the Watchers carried. Quite a few layers of security, both magical and mundane.

"The pseudonym worked well enough for him," Ashura pointed out. She was leaning against the bars now, wrists free and the aches starting to abate. In her arms at least.

The Gatewarden had kept his promise and tried to be accommodating. Some blankets had been spared for the floor, everyone was now untied, and there was a covered clay pot in the corner of the cell in case they needed to relieve themselves. Not much, but better than the open buckets and filthy straw that Ashura had seen in the Flaming Fist dungeons. Better still, they had been given a midday meal from the Watchers' own stewpots.

Still, nothing could change how tightly packed they were inside the tiny cage of steel and brick. It was obvious –in this place where troublemakers were rare and usually dealt with by simply being exiled– that the Watchers were completely unprepared to deal with an entire magic-wielding party accused of murdering two noblemen.

Imoen tapped the box again with her fingertip, then began to feel around the bars. There was a Watcher sitting out front, of course, but he currently had his back turned. Didn't look like she was making a serious effort anyway. Just fidgeting. "Well what I mean is," she continued, "we can point out this whole Koveras/Sarevok thing at the trial. And there's all sorts-a other holes in this cheap frame-up case of his. Minsc and Edwin can testify to the fact that I was with 'em at the time of the murder too! Not to mention what Reevor and the rest will have ta say!"

Viconia scoffed. "A trial? Really?"

"Well yeah. Really! The Watchers are as fair as they get, and-"

"This Sarevok will not play fair. And we have been attacked by _doppelgangers_ in this place."

"Ack. Yeah…" Imoen's hand unconsciously slipped up to her front of her neck. "But they can't…they can't just _replace_ everyone or…how many can there be anyways? And we've killed one…" Her voice trailed off and they all fell silent for a good long while.

Eventually Imoen sat down in front of the bars, hugging her knees. "Wish my dad would come visit," she said abruptly.

"Yeah," Ashura had to agree. Would be good to see that smiling rapscallion again, especially since-

"Those doppels can pluck the face of someone you care about right out of yer mind, right? And pretend to be them. That's probably what the one that tried to kill me did."

"Yeah," Ashura repeated. "One attacked me wearing your face, when we all got separated in the Seven Suns' house."

"There was another that did that to Xan," Imoen said, turning to the elf, "right?"

He nodded.

"Not surprising." Ashura patted her sister's shoulder. "When they go probing for 'loved ones' your face is the first that shows up in everyone's mind, huh?"

"Aw, now yer embarrassing me." Imoen continued to sit there watching out through the bars of the door, but no visitors appeared, jolly or otherwise.

The hours crawled by and the shadows began to lengthen, small groups of Watchers occasionally passing through their field of vision or sitting down to unwind at the mess table. As the prisoners watched and waited Ashura found her eyes drifting to Imoen from time to time.

_ Should I just tell her?  _ But how would she even go about that? It would be easier to just give Imoen the letter, but it had been stuffed in Ashura's belt when she had been captured, along with Alianna's cloak. Gone now, with the rest of her equipment. _Best not to tell her right now, in any case. She has a lot on her mind._

They all did. Ashura kept peering through the bars along with her sister –her _true_ sister, at that– searching for Hull as the guards drifted in and out of view. Would be nice to see a friendly face out there. Every Watcher was _familiar_ , of course, but they were all staying stony and keeping their distance.

Soon lamps were lit and their first evening in the Candlekeep jail began.

* * *

The hay crinkled somewhere beside Imoen, and suddenly she was aware of a warm presence right next to her in the dark. At first she wasn't sure who had slipped in close to her. (Clos _er_. The tiny cell had them bumping into each other as is. Add one or two more prisoners and they'd be stacked like cordwood.) Then Viconia whispered. "We need a plan of escape." She was using the drow tongue.

_ Her. Should'a known.  _ "Probably," Imoen agreed. Her drow was very iffy, and she filled in the blanks with Chondathan words as she went. "I'm still hoping–" (funny, she didn't know the drow word for hope. _Is there one?_ ) "–that our friends in the Watchers will pull through. And if not I've got the picks we made. Just need to lift a stone off a guard, and then maybe we can slip out."

"That is what I was thinking," Viconia whispered. "And I've an idea on how to do the lifting. We are three of us women, after all, and these guards are almost exclusively males."

_ Oh, I see where this is going.  _ "Uh. I grew up with most of these 'males,'" Imoen protested.

"Then you know them well. Perhaps you know some of their weaknesses and proclivities?"

"Yeah, maybe. But I'd prefer not to…"

"Having _preferences_ in dire circumstances will get you killed," Viconia stated, harsh and flat. "But if I need provide all of the distractions I can. Just take advantage if one of the males falls for it, and make sure you are ready to slip behind and strangle him."

Imoen gulped, cringing and clenching the muscles of her neck, and again her hand instinctively reached up to there. "Nuh…no. No! No one's getting strangled around here." _I've had_ quite _enough of_ that! "Especially not some guy who gave me Midwinter cookies when I was little."

There was an irritated sigh from the darkness. "At some point you will need to-"

"Yeah, but sometimes you don't _need_ to. There's other ways. Always. Look, I like yer idea. Get the guy guarding us to drop his pants and I'll swipe the stone and keys right off him, easy peasy. No need for murder when quick fingers will do just the same."

"We shall see."

_ Indeed we shall.  _ Viconia didn't know the Watchers the way that she did. Some of them were monks from various sects that had taken vows against 'carnal distractions' and the like. And the rest weren't stupid

* * *

It was midmorning on the next day when a visitor finally showed. And _not_ a visitor Ashura particularly wanted to see. As always he was dressed in impeccable white, chin high, strides quick and steady. Ulraunt was flanked by one of the robed priests of Oghma and a guard in heavy mail, and the priest carried an object wrapped in fine cloth under his arm.

"I knew you two would bring murder to my house," Ulraunt announced by way of greeting, stopping just short of the bars and crossing his arms at his chest. His eyes surveyed them all, narrowing with a sharp glint when they fell upon Ashura. "Just through your existence you can't help but invite such things." A snort. "And we've all heard the rumors about the mess you've been causing up and down the coast, collecting bounties and fighting armies. But now it seems that you've graduated to full-fledged assassination! How fitting. Wasn't your mother an assassin?"

Ashura had taken to her feet, and now she stepped up to the bars, facing the old buzzard. "I never knew my mother." She put it simply, with a shrug. "And I didn't kill anyone here." _Not recently at least._

To her surprise Ulraunt chose not to be pedantic and bring up the bunkhouse all those months ago. Instead he rolled his eyes, dismissive. "Yes, yes. They all say that. It's why we have the divination wards in place. A strict rule of no aggression is best enforced by detecting and throwing out the aggressor. And need I remind you that I am a diviner. I carefully examined the goings-on in the great hall myself. I witnessed the murder _you two_ commited!"

"You couldn't have!" Imoen squeaked. "Or you saw it wrong."

Another derisive snort. "See for yourself." Ulraunt held out an expectant hand. The priest beside him reached into his cloth bag and withdrew a small mirror that was about the size of a hand-shield, the polished glass ringed in bronze and studded with opals. Carefully taking the object, the Keeper of the Tomes thrust it forward and barked out a single word, the glinting surface of the glass instantly going smoky. Soon it resolved into a bright, blurred scene.

It was hard for Ashura to really discern the details playing out in the mirror; likely diviners were meant to hold such objects right up to the eye and peer in. Ulraunt was happy to point and provide narration, however. "There you are," he proclaimed, tapping a black blur that had some pearly white dots. "Slipping behind Rieltar Anchev and wrapping something around his neck. I see that you whispered something in his ear. What was it?"

Ashura said nothing. Explaining that she had never managed to sneak up on anyone in her life seemed a little pointless. _'I kill people in an entirely different way, so that can't be me'_ likely wouldn't work as an excuse.

"And there," Ulraunt added, pointing to a bobbing violet blur that was topped with red. His eyes shifted to Imoen. "There you are slipping behind Brunos Costak when he rushed to help his master, and then stabbing him repeatedly in the back."

Imoen squinted, puzzled, and then she shook her head. "No, that can't…oh!" Realization entered her voice. "It's doppelgangers. Sarevok's been using them as henchmen. He must have sent doppelgangers disguised as us to kill those two."

Ulraunt laughed bitterly as he pulled the scrying mirror back, the images suddenly winking out. "Doppelgangers? Really?"

"Really."

He laughed again. "That's a brilliant excuse. I'm surprised more criminals don't think it up. 'That wasn't me. It was a doppelganger that did it!'"

"But it was!" Ulraunt had begun to turn. "There's doppelgangers on the loose here! Ask Reevor! And Hull and Fuller and Jondalar! They went hunting for them in the crypts. Ask Minsc the Rashemi! His witch was replaced by a doppelganger. Ask Edwin the Thayan! He nearly got killed by-"

"We have investigated!" Ulraunt snapped over his shoulder. "And if these farcical tales of…shapeshifter attacks were true I certainly would have heard of it!" Now he marched away, his assistants scurrying behind him as his voice receded. "There shall be no stalling or trickery: the lot of you are to be carted north to Baldur's Gate, where the authorities there shall deal with you. I have given the order, and you will depart as soon as there are Watchers equipped for the journey." And with that he was gone.

"Can we do things as I suggested now, _khal'abbil_?" Viconia asked in a cold voice.

Imoen didn't look at her, mouth hanging open as she stared out through the bars. Eventually she gave the drow a forlorn look and shook her head.

Ashura could certainly sympathize. Out at the table a human man and a half-elven woman in padded shirts were quaffing down bowls of porridge and drinking from steaming mugs of tea. The man's name was Canderous; a closed, quiet sort of fellow who liked books near as much as the Readers. He had served in some army in Tethyr before seeking Candlekeep out as a sort of peaceful semi-retirement.

The woman was named Osprey, one of just five women out of the sixty-five Watchers. She had once been a sailor, and had taught Ashura a few interesting knots. She also knew a bit of battle-magic, which Imoen had pressed her on a few times as a kid ( _'Teach me burning hands!'_ )

If they were to attempt an escape they would likely have to fight the Watchers. Kill some of them. And she knew all of their names and faces, even if she didn't know them all that well. Not a pleasant proposition.

* * *

By late that afternoon they were no closer to escape than they had been that morning. Viconia had sent all sorts of looks and even sultry calls in the direction of the Watchers that passed into view, but all had kept their faces stony or even rolled their eyes. The lock and the bars remained firm and impenetrable, and when the midday meal had arrived the guard had ordered them all –in no uncertain terms– to stand against the back wall with their hands on their heads before he even entered. He had kept an especially close eye on Imoen.

The hours ground along in bored silence. Garrick had asked a few times if he could be given back his harp, offering to serenade the whole barracks, but the Watchers had assumed it was some trick. A shame. Ashura found herself missing the duets he and Imoen often got up to on the road.

No visitors. No progress. Nothing but sullen tedium as the shadows once again stretched through the bars and dust moats wheeled and bobbed. They had attempted a few times to huddle and whisper, but the man guarding them this afternoon was keen on that. 'I can hear every word, you know,' he had said at one point. 'That's a good idea though, faking a fight amongst yourselves so we'll open the door. Maybe it'll work.'

_ So much for that plan. _

Still, they would have to try _something_. Perhaps when the evening meal was delivered…although at meal time there were always far more Watchers in the barracks, pressed in around the table. _Damn. Hm._

A clink of platemail and a little scraping drew Ashura's attention. Their afternoon guard was finally moving, stretching his arms high and then wriggling up and off of his seat. From there he waved in greeting at the group of armored men who were making their way around the mess table.

"You're relieved son," the shortest of the four newcomers barked, in a voice that had Ashura and Imoen both scrambling up and to the door, looking out expectantly.

_ Yep.  _ It was Sergent Reevor, and sure enough Hull, Fuller and Jondalar were walking along with him. Their armor lacked its typical polish –it looked downright scuffed up, in fact– but each still carried his enchanted staff. Ashura's heart raced with something like hope. She doubted she had ever been happier to see Hull.

The afternoon guard nodded with gratitude and made his way stiffly towards the far door, leaving the area empty beyond Reevor and his little crew – likely until the upcoming shift-change and the gaggle of Watchers who would come streaming in to prepare the evening meal.

"Sooo good to see you four!" Imoen exclaimed, pushing her face between the bars. Beside her Ashura nodded in agreement. "You need to talk to the Gatewarden if you haven't! No one seems to know about the-"

"Oh yes," said Fuller.

"We gave him a full report," Jondalar added.

Ashura's fists tightened around the bars. The four Watchers were marching up in lock-step, and Hull hadn't spared her a glance. His face was blank.

"The Gatewarden sent us, in fact," Reevor put in. "We're to escort you to the Gate, to face justice." Stopping just short of the door, he planted his staff.

Ashura began to back away, eyes shifting from waxy-blank face to waxy-blank face, her mind racing. _Damnit damnit damnit!_

Imoen, on the other hand, gave the four a disbelieving look. "What'da'ya mean?!" she demanded. "You know I couldn't have been involved in no murder: I was with you guys. And you were chasing Dynaheir. You know, the doppelganger disguised as a mage that blasted her way through half the keep and…"

The heads of the four guards all swiveled, one to the next to the next. "Dynaheir?" Hull asked.

"Never heard of 'em," Reevor replied, shrugging.

As one their heads all turned towards the cage and as one they gave the prisoners a predatory smile. "Now come quietly please," Fuller ordered, his tone soft and almost sing-song.

Ashura had retreated another step. "Ims. Back away."

It would be five against four, but those four were wearing platemail and armed with enchanted staves. The weapons were not suited for the close quarters of the cell, however. It would be cramped and hectic, and maybe she could knock some of these heavily armored… _things_ over – create enough of a break for the spell-casters to barrel their way out of the field of anti-magic and put their talents to use.

Very dicey, but what else _could_ they do? She planted her feet, knees bent, palms open and ready to grab at the closest staff and legs ready to spring.

But it never came to that.

Somewhere out of sight the door to the barracks house creaked open. Reevor turned his head slightly. "Go away. We're dealing with the prisoners and we need some-"

He was cut off by a low _whoosh_ and the bright flash of something streaking in towards them. It skimmed the surface of the mess table and sent up twin trails of smoke and sparks where it touched the wood, and then it was between the four armored men, where it _exploded_ in a blinding burst of white and yellow that had Ashura turning and covering her eyes.

She quickly pushed her arms fully over her face and hair as the roar of the fireburst sounded in her ears, fully expecting to be struck by a scalding blast.

But it never arrived. She didn't even feel heat, and after a beat she peaked between her arms. A wall of curling flames roiled _just_ beyond the prison bars, smoke and fire seeming to press and compact against a transparent barrier. The smell of scorched wood and charcoal had begun to waft in, mixed with a strange scent that Ashura could not quite place; burnt but with a briny tang.

The billowing flames dimmed a little, then a little more, and through the smoke the stick-figure silhouettes of bodies could be seen. Not human; they were floppy and elongated, writhing in a manner that made their disjointed limbs wave every-which-way. Even their heads stretched and twisted, curling round and round or bending sideways as if they were owls. They shuddered through their pained, panicked jig, still on fire even as the surrounding flames started to wink out, and then one by one they fell with a clink of blackened armor and a toneless, inhuman scream. There on the floor they continued to jiggle and convulse, though with each passing beat the tremor of their boneless limbs grew more and more listless. Death-throws, obviously.

Now the fire faded down to embers and a few lingering flames amongst the black scorch marks, and through the smoke and ashes Edwin strode forward, glancing down at the four dying shapeshifters disdainfully. Behind him Minsc rushed in, his greatsword bobbing and nearly scraping the ceiling. "We come to rescue you!" the Rashemi berserker announced.

Edwin just rolled his eyes at that, kneeling down beside the charred remains of the shapeshifters to rifle through their pockets and pouches.

Minsc gave the bodies a disappointed glance, searching briefly for a place to use his sword but finding none. Then he straightened and proudly jogged the last few paces to the prison door, trampling the burnt remains of the mess table. Once there he promptly set his blade aside, gripped the bars, and started tugging. When there was no budge he closed his eyes and dug his heels in, pulling harder and harder.

"You might need a key for that," Imoen pointed out. "And a wardstone. That's a magic lock."

With a grimace Minsc just continued to try and rip the door off its hinges. "It will…budge…any moment…" he grunted.

In the meantime Edwin had risen, several polished rocks clicking together in his hands. "('Only so many wardstones to go around,' that stupid dwarf said. If he had been wise enough to spare me one and solicit my assistance then that conniving creature in the undercroft would already be-)"

"Uh, Edwin!" Imoen called. "Can you open the door?"

The red wizard glanced over at her absently, still sorting through his pilfered wardstones. "Hm? Yes, I suppose your assistance could be useful." Picking out a particular stone, he threw it in the general direction of the prison cell, keeping his hand up as it flew and shifting his fingers into an arcane gesture. Rather than falling to the floor the wardstone wobbled and then drifted along through the air, passing over Minsc's shoulder to hover just in front of the box that housed the lock. With a flash and a click the box flew open, and then –still distracted with his sorting– Edwin gestured a bit more, guiding a keyring up from the belt of one of the dead doppelgangers.

_ Showoff. _

With one key pointed forward and the rest jangling along, the ring streaked like a missile past Minsc. The leading key stabbed home into the lock and then turned with a click, and the barred door flew open violently, carrying Minsc along and slamming him into the masonry. He let out a grunt, but it was swiftly followed by a joyous laugh. "You are free!" Minsc announced, as if it had been his doing all along.

Imoen dashed out of the cell with Ashura and the rest right behind, taking a sharp right towards the pile of lidded boxes where the Watchers had apparently stowed their confiscated gear. Thankfully the scorch marks did not reach that corner of the room.

Side by side Imoen and Ashura both flung boxes open, bending and sorting fast as they could. It was all piled together in a jumble, but the weapons, wands, pouches, spellbooks, armor, quivers, potions, and even a pair of alchemical grenades Imoen had been carrying all seemed to be there somewhere – even a few bags that clinked with coins and gems. Thank the honest stuffiness of the Watchers for that!

Of course enchanted equipment and weapons took top priority. With her armor strapped in place and her swordbelt cinched, Ashura lifted and unfurled Alianna's cloak, giving the grinning, golden skull a long look. _Might as well._ She swung it over her shoulders and began tie it into place, the faint gleam of enchantments shivering around her and then fading from view. There was a sensation of solid protection about her shoulders, though it hardly felt like a mother's warm embrace.

Solid, and bone-cold. The blessing of the god of killing. _Good. There's a lot of people ahead who need killing._

While they put on their equipment and readied their weapons Edwin faced away from the group, his eyes on the door and fingers impatiently drumming against his arms. "As I see it," he began, "we are at a slight impasse. There are four dead doppelgangers in this room, carrying the wardstones which we shall need to enter the undercroft and exterminate all of these irritating creatures (especially that elder- _thing_ that impersonated the witch and _attempted_ to make a fool of me.) Yet there are seven of us."

Finishing with the last of their straps, the companions arrayed in the corner glanced at each other, and Imoen started to open her mouth, but Edwin cut her off before she could speak. "Fortunately," he continued "it is nearing the time for a large contingent of Watchers to file into this room and prepare their evening meal. _And_ , on top of that, the giant imbecile with the hamster for a brain has triggered the alarms that lined your holding cell. So a large number of guardsmen carrying more wardstones than we could possibly use are about to burst through that door." He gave them a backwards glance. "Enchanter! I suggest you get to work."

As if on cue (or as if Edwin had placed some spell outside to alert him so that he could time his little speech perfectly) the door flew open and several armored men rushed in, two by two and fanning out quick as they could, with the Gatewarden himself just a bit behind the first wave. All were armed with steel-tipped staves, and all leveled them at Edwin and the rest.

The Watchers paused once they were properly lined up in their drilled formation, eyes wide and shifting from the charred bodies to the armed escapees, and then back to the bodies again.

The Watchers paused, but Xan, Viconia and Garrick did not. Instead the moon elf and the drow thrust their hands forward and launched into incantations that rapidly became a storm of wavering air in front of them, while the bard aimed his wand and sang out the command-word. The roiling heat-shimmer of magic that the three of them threw forward flew across the room and filled the entire far side with flashing lights and flickering distortions; a wall of enchantment. It found focus around the bodies of the Watchers, pressing in and locking all ten of them into place, paralyzed.

Then everything was nearly silent, save the sound of breathing and the faint hum of the lingering magic. Eventually Edwin let out an impatient growl. "Well! Take their wardstones and keys then! A set for each of us should do. Then we'd best move quickly."

A silent glance between the companions, then Ashura shrugged and went to search one of the charred shapeshifters. They all fanned out from there, gathering what they needed, but as they were doing that Imoen stepped right up to the Gatewarden, looking into his glaring eyes. "We were telling the truth!" she insisted. "There really were doppelgangers and we didn't murder no one! Just examine those four burnt bodies over there that are dressed in Watcher armor and you'll see that they aren't human at all."

As Imoen slipped away Ashura stepped up to the old guard captain herself. The end of his staff was quivering a bit already. Looked like he'd be the first to break the enchantment, and likely soon. "Sorry," was all she could think to say. Then she headed for the doorway and the dimming light beyond.

Once they were outside and well onto the path of compacted dirt Edwin swung around and pointed a finger at the open doorway of the barracks. Before he could utter a word Imoen's bow creaked nearby, an arrow already knocked and aimed right at him. "If you throw a fireball or something at those paralyzed guards," she snapped, "I'll kill ya."

Following her sister's lead, Ashura drew her longsword and pointed it as well.

Drawing in a deep breath and then letting it out, Edwin gave them a disdainful look. Then he launched into his spell. A tiny piece of wood seemed to appear briefly in his hands, and he made it dance between his fingers before it vanished in a puff at the last word of the incantation. At the same instant there was a groaning sound as something solid stretched and grew to fill the entire space of the doorway, pressing against the frame and straining it.

"There," Edwin muttered. "A wall of wood will not discourage them nearly as much as a wall of fire, but it will take them a little time to chop through. And your precious guards will remain safe." With a flutter of red robes he whirled and began marching, hanging close to the inner wall. Minsc hurried behind him, hoisting his greatsword and stomping along.

"I appreciate that you rescued us," Imoen said as she rushed to follow, "but uh…"

"Why are we to follow you," Viconia growled, "and to where? I demand to at least be told, male!"

Edwin did not slow, though he did speak. "As I mentioned, the doppelgangers seem to layer in the crypts beneath the keep. Twice now the barbarian and I have uncovered one of the creatures in disguise –first the stable master and then some sniveling scholar– and they both managed to elude us by somehow slipping past the warded door."

"Dreppin…" Imoen muttered. "Really? That poor sod…damn." They slipped around one of the inner gates, making their way through the twilight gardens.

"I surmised," Edwin went on, ignoring her, "that your party would wish to seek revenge for the slight the doppelgangers have dealt you. Surely I was correct?"

"Hm," Ashura grunted, pondering as they went. "Yeah. We need to stop these things. And there are escape tunnels down there too. Might be a better way for us to get out of the Keep than trying the front gate where there's a portcullis and a heavy guard."

"Perfect then," Edwin said, rubbing his hands together and continuing the lead them through the rows of fountains. They came to an abrupt halt, however, when he stumbled around a corner and right into the sights of a patrolling Watcher, who was just passing by the steps of the inner keep.

Everyone froze, the guard included, and his eyes went wide. "You…" he stammered. "You're the prisoners!"

"We can't be," Garrick countered immediately, "because we're walking around free."

The Watcher cocked his head, raised a finger, and tried to point. "You're…" he stammered, confused, "walking…f-fr-" A titter ran through him. "Fr-free-" Another titter, louder, and then he threw his head back and laughed.

And laughed.

And laughed some more. In a moment his armor clanged against the walkway as he tumbled onto his back and rolled with laughter, a few sputtering words managing to make their way out between the fits. "F-free! Haha! Walking fr-fee!"

Garrick rushed for the steps and gestured for the rest to follow. "Come on. The effect won't last long."

"Is it a requirement of the spell," Edwin asked with disdain, "that your joke be absurdly stupid?"

"Sadly yes." Garrick's voice was solemn even as the cackling echoed behind him. "If they actually get the joke and find it funny the magic doesn't work."

"Bah," Edwin grumbled. "Enchantments."

They hurried up and into the keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The spell Edwin used back there to block the door was actually Minor Creation, as I don't think that there's a Wall of Wood spell in any addition of D&D. And if there were it definitely doesn't sound like a spell that Edwin would keep prepared. Wall of Stone would have worked even better, but hey, this is Edwin! He totally has Cloudkill taking up that important slot.


	79. It is Useless to Resist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the doppelgangers are chased into their lair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning that there are some grim moments in this chapter.

_"_ _I suggest fire protections first and foremost. Unimaginative spellcasters simply_ love _to throw fire everywhere.'_ -Sand of Neverwinter

* * *

Edwin and Minsc had taken the lead as they stomped their way through the library halls, but when they reached the door to the catacombs the Thayan stopped abruptly. He stood there a moment, pondering the reinforced door.

"Somehow," he eventually muttered, "the creatures seem to come and go freely through this place. And I doubt that they all carry wardstones. My _theory_ is that one of the shapeshifters lurks on the other side, holding back the wards to let them pass. And if so then the creature is likely to be one of the more powerful of the species." Lifting a wardstone of his own, he waved it in front of the door. Mechanisms turned, and it began to creak inwardly. "So be prepared for that."

Rather than stepping forward Edwin just gestured for someone else to take the lead. Most of the group glanced about uncomfortably, but Minsc took the cue, lumbering up and slipping through the doorway the moment that there was room for his bulk. Beyond lay a spiral stairway.

"Yowch!" the Rashemi complained after a few bold steps inside, voice echoing off the stone. "Tis rather dark!"

Imoen obliged with a helpful cantrip, sending a tiny ball of light bobbing ahead of the big guy, and then Minsc went forward and the rest followed, winding their way down. The stone walls were packed in close, the descent long and the turns sharp, but Minsc set a swift pace. He practically hopped along, and the air around them soon cooled significantly.

"I would advise caution…" Edwin muttered from the back.

"Minsc has no time for caution!" He even seemed to speed up a bit at that, though now at least their way was lit by the blue flicker of Xan's sword along with the glow of Imoen's witchlight. Another turn and they came upon an archway, which the Rashemi did not hesitate to pass beneath. Ashura was trying to follow close, and they both jostled each other, stumbling out into a dusty storeroom.

The shelves here were piled high with scrolls and books, and the walls were lined with random little oddities. There were sets of scales, ornate braziers, brass globes depicting the planets and their orbits, and a great deal of little statuettes and paintings, some covered to protect them from dust while others were stacked haphazardly. There were several depictions of the old incarnation of Mystra, along with Bane, Myrkul, and many more dead or forgotten gods.

A long wooden table piled high with books stood in the center of the storage room, and over it hunched a woman dressed in the soft blue of a senior scribe, her back turned. Between the robe, the tangled brown hair that looked to have only once or twice made acquaintance with a comb, and the woman's gaunt, boney frame she was easily recognizable. Phlydia only half-turned her head, giving the newcomers the quickest of glances. A little "Hm," was her only form of greeting.

"'Hm' indeed," Edwin mocked. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for my book," the scribe explained absently, still hovering over the table. "Have you seen it?" She gestured, her back still turned. "It's about yay tall and yay wide, with a yellow cover and grey-black binding."

"What's the title?" Imoen asked, but at the same time Xan cleared his throat, calling their attention to him. He appeared even sterner than usual, and as he glared at the scribe he slowly shook his head.

"Ah. I see that you have that elf with you," Phlydia said, the absentmindedness suddenly gone from her voice. "It has been such a nuisance, ever since the merchant house. Snooping on our private talks." And then, with an eruption of fluttering papers, she _leapt_ up and forward, nimble as a spider, across the entire table.

The instant Phlydia's heel touched the floor she spun fully around, already mid-chant with a hand outstretched. Ashura and Minsc had only just started to dash past the table when fire flared across the woman's palm and streaked out as a blazing ray, aimed squarely at Xan.

The elf leaned and stumbled back in a feeble attempt to avoid the flames, but the ray struck his chest nonetheless, yellow and blue fire flaring up and clashing so brightly that Ashura had to blink and look away. She faced forward and slipped around the obstacles strewn about the room, charging full-bore towards 'Phlydia' and aiming to skewer the imposter with her sword.

But the damned face-shifter was already chanting another spell, her hands out now and pointing at the floor. Ashura had almost reached the creature, Minsc roaring somewhere close by, when all of a sudden the world went _white._ She lurched forward another step, cold and dampness buffeting her face and her longsword just stabbing through empty air.

Mist. Everywhere she turned there was thick, cloying mist.

"RAAARGH!" There was a whistling sound nearby and on instinct Ashura bent her knees and ducked, something heavy chopping over her head. "Where is the face-stealer!?" Minsc roared through the haze. "Show yourself!"

"Stop swinging!" Ashura shouted. "You nearly-"

Another roar and another whoosh as the greatsword cut through the mist.

"Stop swinging, you bloody idiot!" She tried to back away from the berserker, though it was hard to tell where he was exactly.

There was a flash of white light, brighter than the ambient mist, and as Ashura found herself blinking back spots the moisture swiftly dissipated and faded to reveal bookshelves and stonework once again. _Dispel._ That was definitely her favorite spell.

To her surprise it seemed to be Xan who had blasted the mists away. He stood where he had been a moment ago, with one hand pointed forward and his moonblade blazing away in the other, no sign of scorch marks or any sort of damage on him. Closer by, Minsc was looking around furtively. He turned towards the nearby passageway, seemed to catch a glimpse of something, and then he took off with a roar, his warcry echoing off the halls.

Ashura took a step forward to follow.

"Wait!" Xan hissed. "There will be traps in the tunnels. And more shapeshifters, most likely."

With a nod, Ashura marched up to the mouth of the hallway. Minsc was already out of sight, though his shouting could still be heard, along with the scrape of steel. "Alright," Ashura growled. "We go in cautious. And under _no_ circumstances do we let ourselves get separated." _Further. Ugh! That moron._

"My thoughts exactly," Xan agreed, sidling up to her.

She looked him in the eyes. "You stay back, okay? And do whatever it is that you do to detect those things."

"They are telepathic creatures. And even the more mature ones cannot help…constantly chattering with each other, mind-to-mind. And taunting me as they do. It is most unpleasant to listen to."

"Well whatever-"

"Oh!" Imoen interrupted. "We need a sign! Xan, can you give us a hand-sign when we meet someone that's a fake?" She held out a hand and joined thumb to forefinger, the rest of her fingers pointing up. "Like this maybe? 'D' for doppelganger."

"That looks more like a B," Garrick pointed out.

Huffing, Viconia stepped closer to Xan and stretched her hand towards him, index finger out and cutting through the air. "Just do that," she snapped. "If you detect a doppelganger. It is the drow hand-sign for 'attack.'"

Xan nodded. "That will work."

"Alright then," Ashura snapped impatiently. "We keep Xan safely behind us, we stick together, and move as a group. Come on!" And with that she marched forward and down the darkened hallway. She had gone perhaps three strides when her toe caught on something and she stumbled, lurching forward and sticking her arms out for balance. There was a faint clicking sound somewhere to her right. "Fuck!"

She let herself pitch forward and turned it into a dive, dropping her swords, ripping the tripwire away in the process, and scampering on her hands and feet. Just behind and above she heard –and felt– the crossbow bolt whizz by and strike the opposite side of the tunnel. Righting herself, Ashura turned back to her companions. "Alright. _Imoen_ leads the way."

"Hehe. Yup!"

"Just like Firewine and Ulcaster. And everyone stay close."

Nodding, Imoen scampered up front and bent down, eyes and nose to the floor. Her light-cantrip bobbed along just above her head as she went, shifting in time with her gaze to better illuminate the floor and nearby walls. After a few steps she whispered something to herself and her form flickered, then disappeared from sight. The light kept floating along, however, leading them through the tunnel and giving a general indication of where Imoen walked.

At a chamber that branched out in three separate directions Minsc's trail grew clear. The remains of two bloated, vaguely human figures lay hacked open, red and yellow innards spilled across the floor. Their skin was ashen and flabby and their mouths had rotted away to reveal sharpened teeth. Minsc's handwork obviously: sticky black blood formed large footprints that led away from the fallen creatures and down the left-hand tunnel.

"Ghouls," Edwin observed.

"There shouldn't be undead down here," Imoen said. "The monks go down here sometimes, and they've never said anything 'bout ghasts or ghouls."

"It is a crypt," Edwin countered. "And there are spellcasting shapeshifters about. The one that the big baboon went chasing after: was she a necromancer?"

"Phlydia? Hrm. Sometime she'd help the priests with embalming and stuff, when one of the old monks died. Gah! So not only did that _thing_ gobble up poor Phlydia's brain, but now it's using her magic to raise up the dead monks too? That's a whole extra level of defilement! Phew!"

"Best not to think about it," Xan stated, looking to the far tunnel. "We may wish to see if we can aid the giant fool, or if he is already dead. Likely the later."

"Yeah," Ashura agreed, and soon Imoen's light went bobbing along and they filed in and followed. It was slow going as always, their invisible scout pausing again and again to inspect irregular marks in the stone or anything else unusual, though the only real trap they encountered was an iron-jawed contraption that Imoen triggered with a tap.

More signs of Minsc's trail lay ahead: the shattered remains of what must have been several reanimated skeletons, and then a torn tripwire a little farther down. As she gritted her teeth and waiting for Imoen to finish examining another set of scuffmarks that would likely turn out to be nothing, Ashura found herself envying the berserker's ability to just blindly charge ahead (and seemingly over all of the traps) and get things done with. Being invulnerable probably helped. Then again the halls had grown eerily silent. Perhaps the big guy had finally blundered into more than he could handle.

Again the tunnels branched, and they turned to follow another trail of splintered bones. A little farther, and they all came to a tense stop when a great " _RRRARGH!_ " echoed off the walls.

Ashura couldn't help but smile, her jangling nerves somehow eased by the warcry. _Good. Come on you crazy giant. Hack all the damn things apart for us._

They hastened just a little bit, Imoen's little fairy-light leading them towards the sound and what appeared to be a wider chamber, vaulted and lined with pilasters. Minsc's guttural shouts and the swish- _thunk_ of his sword hacking into something sounded clearly just ahead.

Just short of the entrance they all skidded to a halt, bumping together. "Hold up!" Imoen hissed. "One more hurry-up-and-wait." There was a slight _snick_ ing sound near the floor, then a thin filament that had been sliced by an invisible knife sank to the tiles. "There we go. Come on!"

The light zipped ahead and into the larger vault, and Ashura took that as a cue to charge full-bore ahead, a hand on Varscona's hilt.

As soon she cleared the archway a hiss sounded right beside her, accompanied by an ungodly stench. She ducked and rolled aside, the spongy hands of something hulking and grey clapping together where she had just been. Righting herself, Ashura backed away from the ghoul. There were crawling motions all around her though: more of the things, bruised and bloated bodies shambling forward.

Varscona sang as it launched from its sheath, catching the nearest creature in the side with a crack, some ribs shattering along with brittle, flash-frozen skin. The ghoul stumbled several steps and lost its balance, but then Ashura was ducking out of the way of a pawing hand as another tried to blindside her. A duck, a turn, and a full-bodied slash sent that hand –and the forearm attached to it– spinning through the air.

Foul smelling and ferocious as the creatures were, they were bloody slow and clumsy, and in the space of a few frantic moments they had been reduced to heaps of torn and corpulent flesh, scattered across the tiles. Looked like there had been seven all told, though some of the destruction was likely Minsc's handiwork.

The berserker himself was on the far side of the room, leaning over the flailing form of a doppelganger which was flat on its back and firmly impaled. Elongated limbs flopped and stretched in every possible direction, but Minsc just leaned in, grinning a mad grin as the struggles grew weaker. The shifter wasn't wearing the blue robe of the false Phlydia, or anything else for that matter.

Once the creature had grown limp Minsc turned a victorious smile their way. His armor was rent in perhaps a dozen places, the side of his big round face was swollen, there were several bloody cuts leaking from his brow, and the iron jaws of a leg-trap were clamped to one of his calves. Apparently he hadn't zipped over all the traps in quite the way that Ashura had imagined; instead he'd just kept going even after getting snagged.

"I slew the beast!" Minsc proudly exclaimed as they approached. "Well, one of the beasts." And now his voice grew sad, some of the spirit draining from him. Along with the blood. "Boo informs me that this is not…quite…the right…beast…" He slipped down, both knees hitting the floor beside the impaled doppelganger and his body only remaining upright because he kept clinging to the crossguard of his sword.

"I am _not_ healing this idiot," Viconia stated firmly, crossing her arms over her chest. "What was done to him here is his own fault."

"Well _I'll_ do what I can," Garrick said with a defiant huff, already moving towards the wounded man.

"Ah, a skald," Minsc greeted him with a weak smile. All of his gusto and fury seemed to have been burned through. "You will…sing Minsc well? And perhaps sing future songs of his deeds?"

"Uh. Let's just get that trap off your leg first." Ashura moved in to help as well, and as Garrick held out his palms and sang over the bleeding spot where the jaws had snapped she worked along with Minsc to pull the device off. It proved easy enough; either the contraption was old and worn or Minsc's struggling had broken most of it.

As the leg-trap clinked to the ground another sound reached them, echoing from the next room. "Help! Is someone out there?!"

"Yes! Please!" came another voice. "If you are…if you're real people, then please help us!"

There were wide, curved steps leading up to a broad archway and into the next chamber, buttressed by pillars of what had once been polished marble; now quite dusty. It looked to be the entrance to some sort of grand tomb.

Immediately upon hearing the cry Minsc straightened, shifted, and began to rise unsteadily to his feet. Garrick's healing song faltered and became an exasperated squeak. "Hey! I was in the middle of-"

"Come friends!" Minsc called over the protests, stomping down on the dead doppelganger and yanking his sword free with an ugly squelching sound. Seemed he had found his second wind.

"Careful," Ashura warned. "These things have pretended to be-"

"People cry for assistance! A hero must answer the call!" Minsc was lumbering up the stairs now, bleeding a bit less and still glowing from Garrick's song. Ashura followed, keeping a few steps behind. Hopefully the big guy would take the brunt of any traps that he triggered.

"We need to restrain that _wael_ ," Viconia complained. "You. Male. Use that wand of yours on him."

"Uhm…" Garrick just stammered.

The next chamber was indeed a tomb, dominated by a tiered and pillared sarcophagus and lined, floor and ceiling, with great checkered tiles of black and white. A magnificent tomb once, before the layers of dust had set in, though what immediately drew Ashura's attention were the three haggard, naked men who knelt by the far wall.

Her eyes widened with recognition and she found herself in step with Minsc as they went, heart racing along with her feet. Hull, Fuller and Jondalar looked up at them through matted hair and bleary eyes, their ankles and wrists obviously bound behind their backs. "You killed that thing?" Hull asked in a raspy voice. "The shapeshifter guarding this place?"

"Indeed my good man!" Minsc boomed. "But save your strength." Prisoners waiting to be rescued, just like at the end of an adventure tale. And of course Minsc was happy to fill the role of the hero.

Ashura's throat tightened and she slowed. She had not yet sheathed her swords, and frost-mist still wafted up from Varscona's edge. Hull was looking to her, bloodshot eyes full of exhaustion and relief, shoulders rising a bit with labored breaths. Must have been agony, bound up like that for gods knew how long. Maybe worse than hanging from manacles the way she had a day ago. He sure looked like a miserable prisoner. _Please. Please gods let this be…_

She turned away, looking over her shoulder for the others. They had all filed in now, Garrick and Imoen first, with Viconia hovering just behind them. Xan and Edwin were hanging back, close to the doorway. Ashura's gaze focused on the elf, who was surveying the scene with a grim look on his face, concentrating. Of course he always looked grim. _Come on._

"Now let us get you out of these bindings!" Minsc was declaring up ahead. "And get you some water of course."

Frown tightening and almond-eyes narrowing to a sharp glare, Xan raised a hand and Ashura's heart sunk. _Don't-_

But he did. His fingers cut the air in the exact gesture that Viconia had shown them. _Damnit!_ Ashura's head lowered and her eyes pinched shut. But in near the same instant the scuffing sound behind her had her whirling, reflex and instinct taking over and eyes snapping right back open.

Open in time to witness the three kneeling figures lunge to their feet. In time to see them raise their open hands (they had only been pantomiming at any sort of bonds) in unison and grasp out at Minsc. And in time to watch the familiar faces ( _Hull…_ ) flow and stretch into blank grey masks, human bodies softening and elongating into those membranous, alien _things_.

Before Minsc could react all three had pounced upon him, claw-like fingers pawing and grappling. He teetered back beneath the force and the weight, and for the space of perhaps a breath all Ashura did was watch. No rescue. No adventure tale. Just another trap and another desperate fight and…

And then she was rushing the last four strides to the end of the room and twisting her longsword back for a swing, eyes glaring at the spongy back of the nearest grey _thing_ that hung from the Rashemi warrior. He –and the creatures– all bobbed and turned at the last instant, and Ashura's slash gouged a great swath of crackling frost-burn across the back of a _different_ shapeshifter than the one she had aimed at.

Not like it mattered. She'd kill them _all_.

The thing's head flew back and it let out an undulating cry, limbs loosening enough for Minsc's constant spinning to throw it off. Racing to where the creature hit the tiles, Ashura leaned in and rammed her shortsword through one of its beady little eyes before it could recover.

Grappling and twisting, Minsc managed to rip one of the creatures from his shoulder and hold it out by the throat, then ram it against the nearby wall. _Slam – squish! Slam – squish!_ Dust flew and ichor began to leak and splatter the wall.

Garrick and Viconia had slipped in behind the berserker now. The bard hesitated, rapier out but an unsure look on his face as he watched man and creature move together. The drow did not: she drew her warhammer back and swung with her hips. Electricity arced and there was a great _pop_ and a gout of smoke when the hammerhead struck the creature's side, knocking it off of Minsc. Fingers twitching, the doppelganger lay stunned on its back when it struck the floor, and Viconia took full advantage, hoisting her hammer with both hands and slamming it down to pulp the creature's head.

And that seemed to be that. The thing Minsc held by the throat was limp and floppy, more black ichor than grey flesh now, and it fell to the floor without a twitch when the berserker let go.

A pained gasp sounded behind them and Ashura whirled around. _It never ends!_

Edwin had scampered further into the tomb, but there in the doorway stood Xan, eyes bulging wide and face contorted in shock. Clawed and bloated hands held him by each shoulder and dug into the fabric of his robes and the flesh beneath, his entire body rigid and beginning to slip backwards. In the dark behind him glimmered the finely pointed teeth and milky eyes of a pair of ghouls, and when Xan tipped back some more they supported him.

Xan's heels dragged on the floor as they pulled him into the shadows, and with a flutter of soiled blue robes a figure dropped from the ceiling and landed between the retreating ghouls and Ashura. It hit the floor as almost a blob of fluttering cloth and formless flesh, then in less than a heartbeat it stretched and stood. It was a faceless thing, stretching out long, spindly fingers, then it wavered and took the form of the fake-Phlydia, a spell already on her lips – all in the time it took Ashura to raise her blades and start to charge, still a good ten paces from the doorway.

Something built and rippled from the tip of Fake Phlydia's finger, then an explosion of green smoke blasted Ashura in the face and stung her eyes. The shock of it made her involuntarily gasp, and that _sure_ turned out to be a mistake. There was a thick, cloying scent and _taste_ to the air, a smell like some of the back alleys of Baldur's Gate where garbage had clotted, soaked and rotting in the runoff from the great river.

She coughed, squeezing watery eyes shut and feeling a wave of nausea roll through, stomach flipping. _That thing's still right there. No time to puke._

Ashura forced herself upright, sword ready, and looked through the blur and the green haze. It proved easy enough, and she only had to fight back one more raspy cough, a strange chill seeping in from somewhere that steadied her lungs; the sensation much like what she had first felt when she donned her mother's cloak.

Fake Phlydia was still right there, her form now blazing with what looked to be arcane protections, and when Ashura lurched to close the distance between them and sliced as hard as she could her blade just rebounded off.

The shapeshifter didn't even flinch. Instead it cocked its head. "Didn't you steal my book?" she asked, hands blurring and extending. In an instant they were white as bone and looked to be just as stiff, fingers merged into sharpened points. No more spells: now the creature struck out with its sword-like appendages, and Ashura parried.

A blur of pink and purple scuttled by them both and launched itself at the nearby wall. Imoen had slung her bow over her shoulder, her hands and knees now striking the stone and sticking to it thanks to some enchantment. Quick as a lizard, she scampered up to the arch and then under it, crawling along the ceiling and down the tunnel. "Xan!" Her voice echoed as she zipped out of sight. "Can you hear me!?"

The whistle of an arm-blade forced Ashura to duck. She slipped to the side of the creature as its momentum carried it, retaliating with a stab that broke through its flickering barrier and stained the creature's robe with black blood. The Fake Phlydia backed up, retreating into the hallway, and Ashura pursued with a flurry of blows, carving shallow nicks into its calcified arms.

The thing was swinging two blades, but it was no swordswoman. Arms flapping, it left its body open, and Ashura's slashes and stabs cut through its wavering shielding again and again. Two more shallow slices, and then the creature whirled and ran, full-speed, down the hall.

Blood boiling and swords leading the way, Ashura raced right along and followed, down the corridor and through the branch that the creature took. It was only when they reached the next great fork in the tunnel, and the clattering bones and needlepoint grins of a swarm of ghouls and skeletons burst into view from both branches, that she realized she had been led into a trap.

_'_ _Don't get separated.' Nice bloody job following your own advice, Shura._ That was what she thought as the thick, spongey bodies of the ghouls slammed into her, and naked claw-bones clattered in her ear. Then there was no time left for thinking; only twisting and slashing as the stench of death filled her nostrils and she fought desperately to drive it back.

* * *

_Bump! – Bump! – Bump!_

Each hurried step jostled Xan's stiff body against the flagstones, though it did not precisely cause him pain. The supernatural chill that emanated from the ghoul's clenched claws and flowed through his veins had numbed him far too much to feel anything beyond tiny jolts.

_Bump! – Bump! – Bump!_

Swift and heedless, it dragged him through the dark. This was just like the Cloakwood! The spiders! The poison that had turned muscle to stone and chocked the breath from Xan's lungs. Numb and helpless, carried along to some sort of feeding ground.

Just like the Cloakwood, and just like that damp, oppressive cave not so long ago, where the gleeful orcish madman had leered over his bound and feeble form, dreaming up new torments. That great, all-powerful bulk, leaning over Xan as he lay –limbs splayed and bound, completely exposed and completely helpless– across the bloodstained table.

Unlike the spider's poison the ghoul's touch had not paralyzed his lungs, but now Xan found that he could not breathe. He could not breathe!

Shadows of other shambling beasts were visible in his blurred and jangling vision, halfway lit by the blue-white glow of the moonblade that dragged, useless, against the floor. One creature turned back towards him and its milky eyes shone, teeth glinting as well. It let out a hiss, then looked back down the tunnel ahead.

The undead _things_ were constantly twitching and hissing. He wondered if they were fighting the urge to just throw him down and start tearing into his flesh in a feeding frenzy, the way ghouls are wont to do. The creature that controlled them must be holding them back.

That fact provided Xan with a few spare minutes to live, some objective, distant part of him guessed as he struggled for air. Spare minutes, but only just. No doubt his skull would soon be sliced open, brain and memories devoured by one of the shapeshifters.

_Yes it will_ , a voice hissed in his head, though the doppelganger had hastened down the hall and disappeared, no doubt going to its layer. _Mother has evoker, I have necromancer, and soon I shall have enchanter as well. Shame about that slippery eel of a conjuror._

Clever things, these doppelgangers. It seemed useless to res-

Another bump, and this one actually hurt. The ghoul had tugged him over a jagged bit of masonry and scraped his spine getting him across. _Ouch!_ Despite the seeping cold that paralyzed most of his body Xan's face scrunched up in pain, and his arm twitched as well.

_Move! I can move!_ But as he tried to bend his elbow Xan's arm went back to wobbling. Still…the paralysis was not absolute. ( _Of course it's not_ ), that more detached part of him seemed to observe. ( _Sufficient will_ can _overcome these things. And the Quessir are especially resilient against holding magic. We are not meant to be caged._ )

_Not meant_ , that telepathic voice hissed back, though it seemed more distant somehow. _But you are caged easily enough._

So true. He had been caged for so-

_Bah!_ Xan shut his eyes tight and focused on gripping his moonblade firmly.

_It is useless to resist._

_What would Imoen say to that?_ Xan wondered, eyes clinched and his hand now twitching. _Probably something colorful. 'Seems pretty useful to me, sponge-face!' Something like that._ He focused, bearing down, so very tired of being dragged about like this. Tired, too, of being completely _useless_ in the face of mindless creatures like these undead, or telepathic monsters that could resist his enchantments. That was the reason, after all, that Xan had recently adjusted his repertoire of prepared spells. _It would be a shame if I were to die before having a chance to try them out._

Suddenly the muscles in his arm clenched and then moved smoothly, and after a deep breath Xan bent his elbow as hard as he could and flicked his blade backwards. An awkward way to stab, perhaps, but between his frustration and the enchantment in the sword there was enough strength there to slice right through the arm of the ghoul that had been dragging him. It screeched, turning to look down at him. Twisting the blade and sawing a bit, he finally made the thing let go, his robe ripping and a great deal of fabric coming off between the creature's claws.

As soon as he hit the floor Xan bolted onto his feet, moonblade raised and lips frantically running through an incantation. The rest of the undead were turning towards him, but as they did his form blurred. They lunged, but awkwardly, eyes darting about in confusion, and Xan twisted as well, dancing away from the groping claws and slashing at one of the outstretched arms.

A couple more defensive swings and then he wriggled safely away, finding space to back up. The hall before him was lined with sharpened teeth: five creatures at least, and though their clumsy grasping had missed him thanks to the blurring spell they could still tell his general location.

The pack of ghouls rushed forward, claws high, jaws open.

But as Xan had backed away he had begun another spell, and now he sang out the last lilting phrase. Suddenly the surging ghouls seemed to hang, suspended in mid-pounce. They floated along like ghosts, dust moats suspended all around, and Xan dashed four precise steps back from them, pointing his burning blade before him and taking a side-stance the way he had been taught.

One of the creatures pushed forward faster than the rest – though it still seemed to be lumbering thanks to Xan's _haste_ -enhanced senses. He bent his knees and drove his moonblade through its outstretched arm, slicing open flesh and knocking the creature a bit to the side, and then Xan slipped out of its way, slashing again and again and opening gashes that revealed gleaming bone. The ghoul crashed to the floor and rolled.

The next ghoul came close to colliding with him, but he managed to wriggle aside, and again he slashed, showering the floor with black blood. Against human opponents the blows he had delivered would have been incapacitating, but the creatures were not slowed.

Taking advantage of his speed, Xan zipped between the next two, rushing to the other side of the tunnel and backing against the wall as he began to chant more draconic words, one hand grasping the wrist of the other, and before the ghouls could fully swerve and rush him again he felt his limbs swell with magically enhanced strength. He raised his sword in both hands now, dodging aside as one of the creatures surged forward with a raking claw, and when he sliced down this time the ghoul's entire arm went flying. The creature looked down at the empty space and the seeping blood, and then Xan's next slash took off its head.

All at once the remaining ghasts and ghouls were on him, and Xan used all of his speed to slither and then hop away. One more quick incantation, and a wave of arcane energy tingled across Xan's skin, forming a second layer, hard as stone.

With the final enhancing spell in place, he aimed his sword, bent his knees, and rather than retreating he _charged._

Hastened and strengthened so, his moonblade hacked through bone and limbs, ribcages flying open and heads breaking apart. Within moments the five reanimated corpses were just hunks of decayed meat spread across the floor, not even twitching.

Shaking some blood from his sword, Xan took a few hasted steps down the hall. The enhancement spells would wear off soon and there were more-

He stopped himself, taking a breath and looking about at his surroundings. There had been enough sword-swinging as it was. Best not to push it. And blindly charging forward was what had gotten them into this predicament in the first place. Best to be cautious. An invisibility spell next.

Still, Xan couldn't help but survey the wreckage he had created one more time. Xan the Bladesinger. Shar-Teel would be proud.

* * *

Wherever Ashura turned there were grasping claws and sharpened, clicking bones. No time to think or plan – she spun and she wheeled and she slashed, shouldering the heavy body of a ghoul aside when it tried to pin her down, then kicking the feet out from beneath another. Her swords cut air and sinew – her elbows, knees and pommels bashed at anything that pushed in close, breaths deep and desperate and drawing in the stink of the things; struggling not to choke.

A whirl, and she was face to face with a hulking ghast, its cracked and bleeding gums stretching right before her face. A reeling motion and she was out of snapping distance, Varscona arcing down. It struck the bald crown of the creature's head and split its skull.

Something collided with her back and on instinct Ashura let herself lurch forward and took a few steps, trying to create some distance before she spun around to face the next ghoul. Before she could swing, however, an arrow whistled in, striking the creature's neck with a sizzle and a burst of smoking liquid that spread from the wound. The creature's sallow flesh began to melt and fall away, and soon its head was hanging halfway off its shoulders, then it crumpled at Ashura's feet.

And then there was nothing more to fight. Piles of shattered bone and rotting flesh lay strewn across the tunnel floor, smoke rising from arrows imbedded in the backs of several ghouls. Imoen was hanging upside-down from the ceiling nearby, her bow in hand, an arrow knocked, and her spell keeping her feet attached to the roof of the passageway.

"Fire arrows would'a been even better against those things," Imoen mused, "but acid's all I got left."

"Thanks for the help," Ashura replied.

"Wait. So how do I know it's really you?"

Ashura rolled her eyes. "When you were ten you decided to surprise your older sister by baking a cake for her birthday, but you couldn't find the-"

"Alright, alright!" Imoen interrupted. "Don't need to tell the whole embarrassing story." A pause. "And of course you can be sure that it's me 'cause-"

"I know it's you."

"How?"

"That magic climbing spell of yours. Saw you cast it, and you're still under the effect."

"Oh. True." Approaching a nearby wall, Imoen shifted from upside-down to vertical, walking down a little bit and then hopping to the floor. "Whew. Now that's a head-rush." She frowned down at the fallen undead. "I couldn't find Xan."

Ashura gestured with her swords. "Let's keep looking then." Nothing to do but that. Keep moving. No way out but through. All the tunnels looked the same though, and she had gotten pretty turned around in the fight. She picked a branch at random, starting forward.

"Elves can resist ghoul-touches right?" Imoen was whispering beside her. "I read that somewhere. Hopefully he snapped out of it. Fought 'em."

"Yeah." Ashura doubted that of course. The enchanter's magic had proved incredibly powerful much of the time, but he was next to useless against things that had no minds. And he was so frail: those stick-like arms, the sunken eyes that had never quite recovered from the ordeal they had rescued him from, the fear and paralyzing panic she sometimes spotted creeping across his face when things went south. "We'll find him." _One way or another. A shame._ Xan probably wouldn't believe it if she told him, but she rather liked the dour little fellow.

Up ahead the tunnel curled, and a doorway led into what appeared to be a side chamber. There was a rank and musty smell emanating from that doorway, and as she approached Ashura readied her weapons. More undead. There were always more.

Silent and cautious, they turned the corner.

Ashura's jaw dropped the moment she entered the room, and her arms slackened, swords drooping before her. Her mouth opened to form words, but nothing came, and beside her Imoen let out a pained gasp. Numb, she stepped forward, into the tomb.

It was a wide and vaulted chamber, the far walls lined with countless little crypts that were filled with ancient, dusty bones. But there were fresh corpses too. So very many – well over a dozen, at least. They were strewn haphazardly across the floor like garbage, their clothes stolen and their limbs splayed out, some of them bloody and others bruised about the neck, eyes open and staring out at nothing. And every face was familiar.

"Don't look…" Ashura finally managed to say, after an eternity. But they couldn't turn away. They couldn't. Imoen dropped to her knees and let out a choked sob.

There would be no adventure-story rescue. No happy ending. No homecoming, after this.

From the doorway behind them a voice spoke; familiar, sad, and almost kindly. "This is all your doing, I'm afraid."

* * *

_There. There. In perfect pitch._

The Revealer of the Young stepped into the tomb, dressed in the robes of a monk and the face of an elderly man conjured from the mind of the taller, thinner female primate. A form of significance. Of reverence. _"Father"_ she called him in her memories. And the choice of form drew out the intended effect: The Revealer could feel wave after wave of horror and despair wafting off the creatures.

Cruel, perhaps, but manipulating the minds of its prey had often proved the most effective tactic, over The Revealer's long lifespan. And prey that had lost all hope was easy prey indeed. "What did you expect," The Revealer asked in the mimicked voice, "would happen when you entered this place, Bhaalspawn? You know what you bring, wherever you step. Just as your presence brought about my death…"

Beside the revealer another figure stepped into the chamber, short and round. The Eldest of its children, currently wearing the form of the shorter primate's father. "…and ya brought about mine as well." The Eldest shook its head sadly. "What were ya thinkin'?" it asked. "Bringin' all of yer curses and yer fights to these hallowed halls?"

The tactic seemed to be working. The shorter human was sobbing uncontrollably, her bow now sitting forgotten on the floor. Yet the taller human…

…it stepped away from the pile of corpses and pointed with its swords.

"My child," The Revealer began, attempting a soothing tone, but the primate cut it off.

"I'm no child of yours!" it shouted, surging forward now, and the waves of emotion that wafted from it now tasted nothing like horror or despair. It was something The Revealer had never felt before, and for which it had no name. Something tumultuous and scalding.

"Die!" the primate snarled, its longsword raised high and emanating icy mist.

Quick as it could The Revealer shifted to the form of the Rashemi witch, flinging its fingers out and imitating the thoughts, words and motions of one of her spells: a blast of enchantment meant to paralyze.

But that blast simply rolled over the human with no effect, and now it was charging, its eyes glowing with the golden light of a furnace. It was then that The Revealer realized that it may have just made a terrible mistake.


	80. Vengence

_ "Its people are oft forgetful, but the spirits of Rashemen are not."  _ –Fydra Night-Tree

* * *

"You cannot hope to- Ahhhhhhhhh!" The raspy cry echoed off the pillars and the domed ceiling, half a scream and half a hiss. It was the boyish-looking bard who had delivered the final blow, lunging in close when Viconia pushed the shapeshifter towards him and running it through with his rapier. A kick dislodged the sword, and the thing deflated and flopped to the tiles like an airless bladder, its limbs wobbly as pudding.

"These _things_ never run out of worthless threats," Edwin complained. "All while they drop like flies."

"Pests, yes," Viconia agreed. "Without their trickery."

A few minutes earlier, when a pair of 'monks' had approached the three of them and begged for their help, Edwin had hit upon a plan (brilliant in its simplicity) to determine if the strangers were doppelgangers. Tossing a minor fire cantrip at one of the monks had provoked _both_ of them into shedding their human faces and attacking like animals, and shortly after that another disguised doppelganger had emerged from the darkness and reacted the exact same way to a tiny splash of acid.

It seemed an effective test so far, and if he ran out of cantrips the bard and drow supposedly had a few of their own. Of course if they ever actually encountered a _real_ person down here Edwin supposed that he or she would get a little singed, but such was life.

"These remaining things are little more than pests," Edwin agreed. "Although the two elders are still out there somewhere, with their stolen magic."

Beside him the drow nodded and looked out into the darkness. They were standing in the center of a vault far greater than the other tombs they had explored, the ceiling arching a good twenty feet above their heads and supported by rows of fluted pillars, all above a floor of decorative tile. Edwin's conjured globe of light kept the space around them well-lit, though the far side and outer edges of the mausoleum fell off into darkness. They had stumbled into this place searching for their companions: the fools who had gone charging off while the three of them were still choking on noxious gases.

Suddenly Viconia stiffened, gripping her hammer tight. "Those things may have just added an enchanter to their repertoire," she hissed. "Be ready!"

There was something glowing faintly in the distance, but it took some time for the figure that the drow had spotted to step into the magelight: an elven man, dressed in richly purple robes. There was a longsword –blue steel wreathed in a dim light– hanging heavy in his hand, and a moonstone circlet rested on his brow beneath his long, chestnut hair.

"It is…reassuring to hear how much you worry for my safety, Viconia," the elf called as he approached.

" _Our_ safety comes first," the priestess replied, turning a degree to give Edwin a significant look.

He nodded back at her, waited for the elf to draw a few paces nearer, then he stretched out an open palm. One sharp word from Edwin and a tiny flare appeared, and with a push he sent it flashing forward. The pinprick of fire raced over to the elf in less than a blink, then blue flames flared up from the moonblade and instantly overwhelmed it. There was an understated little puff and the cantrip just vanished.

Once that was done the blue fire faded back down to its usual, somber glow, and the elf just raised an eyebrow and continued to trudge forward. "You realize that the Seldarine would not allow an imposter to carry a sword like this, do you not?" he asked.

Edwin crossed his arms at his chest and straightened. "So you say. All I see is a test that proved inconclusive."

"Indeed," Viconia agreed. "I propose we kill him _just_ to be completely safe." Beside her the bard's jaw fell open and he stared, aghast, but the drow was grinning at the approaching elf. In fact that grin seemed to expand a bit as Xan stepped into their midst. He seemed to expect no real hostility, and none was given as he turned and plopping down with a tired breath. He then shifted a bit, crossing his legs beneath him.

"Glad you made it," Garrick told the elf, placing a hand upon his shoulder. "Last I saw you were…uh…being dragged off by ghouls." He made a pained face. "Did you fight them off or something?"

The elf stared down at the sword that now rested across his lap. "Apparently I did."

Edwin turned away from the little reunion and back to the darkened vault. "That's one," he stated, "but we are still short several people." The others were silent. "If no one has any better ideas I _suppose_ I shall summon something to search for them."

The boyish little fellow laughed nervously. "You miss that big partner of yours, huh?"

Edwin stretched his fingers out, his back to the boy as he pondered what, specifically, to conjure. "Partner? What do you..? Oh. Bah!" He glared forward. "I had completely forgotten about _him._ I've more of an interest in retrieving that lovely, dark haired girl. (I am sure once she fully understands what I have to offer she will accept that job of bodyguard and bedwarmer. I just need to explain things clearly…)

Garrick pulled a face. "Bodyguard and what?"

Ignoring him, Edwin began his incantation.

Minutes later, at the red wizard's command, an air mephit glided out into the darkness. Its transparent wings did not beat, but rather stretched out in silence as it floated along, a wispy contrail billowing behind it in a facsimile of a tail.

It was a bulbous, grey-white creature, seemingly formed from puffy bits of cloud, and judging by its shape, voice, and a _lack_ of certain appendages the mephit seemed to be female (though Edwin would always consider such a creature an 'it,' and regardless of its sex _it_ was an irritating little thing. Its voice was a high whistle, and its first words upon being summoned had been: 'What's ta do, boss?') _Thankfully_ Edwin had prepared a supplemental binding spell, which would allow him to control his servant directly without the need to _converse_ with it. (Ah, the way these things always butchered language...)

With a little concentration Edwin's senses followed the mephit's, his perspective shifting and merging with the creature's. Now he saw what it saw (the gaps in the stonework were clear and sharp thanks to the creature's enhanced vision), heard what it heard (keenly too, thanks to the servant's sharply pointed ears), and felt the chill air of the mausoleum rush against his face as the mephit glided along. Already insubstantial, the mephit's form blurred further as it flew, becoming a puff of mist and shadow that would be difficult to spot. An excellent scout, all in all, which was the reason Edwin had summoned it in the first place.

Silent, and now well-camouflaged, the creature glided past side-rooms adjacent to the great vault, a glance proving that each was a dead end; nothing more than empty tombs. It was only when the creature reached the far side of the mausoleum and crossed into the maze of tunnels (the maze that Edwin and the rest had emerged from minutes ago) that its ears picked something up.

A muffled echo. Perhaps the sound of someone shouting? Edwin willed the mephit onward.

The confounding passages branched and branched, but thankfully the noises were constant and seemed to be growing in pitch. Edwin steered the mephit down a tunnel, guided by its prickled ears, and soon the creature was picking up speed. The sounds grew more distinct: mad shouting, ringing footsteps, and then came murmuring speech. Faster and faster, the support columns in the walls zipped by as the scout sped along, now turning down a curved passageway.

Some sort of crash sounded up ahead, along with a low, keening wail. Then came words. Edwin thought he recognized a few of them too. _Draconic?_ He realized that he recognized the evocation _just_ as his scout reached the archway and-

The mephit turned sharply, whipping around a corner and through the opening just in time to witness the blinding flash of the spell at close quarters, its nostrils suddenly full of ozone and its eardrums blasted by the thunderclap. Wobbling in the air, the scout drifted backwards and brushed against the edge of the door's stone frame, franticly blinking.

All that motion made it difficult for Edwin to take in the full scene, though he felt none of the creature's discomfort. His mind's eye could not be blinded by perceived flashes, and his eardrums were safe; an advantage of the spell. He could take everything in with dispassion, if the damned mephit would just hold still!

Dynaheir (the _false_ Dynaheir) and the pale girl with the dark hair were mere paces apart, a jagged bolt of electricity starting to fade between the witch's ( _doppelganger's!_ ) outstretched hand and the girl's chest. Ashura staggered back, and already a trail of smoke was rising from where the bolt had stabbed her. Electrical current seemed to slither and fork down along her shoulders and…

…go mostly through her cloak, which seemed to channel the arcs of sizzling blue-white and send them down to the floor, where sparks erupted around her feet. All the while the cloak gave off a faint golden glow. Then the lightning-blast had run its course and the girl lurched forward a step, her lead foot connecting with the floor. For a split-second it seemed she might collapse, but she steadied herself instead, wisps of smoke rising in places. Singed a bit, the girl kept her feet and a grip on her swords. And then she _launched_ herself forward with an overhand swing. That seemed to catch 'Dynaheir' by surprise.

The false witch tried to leap and scurry backwards, a tricky maneuver in the heavy black robes she wore, and at the same time she raising her arms defensively. A flash of protective magic slowed the sword-blow, and one of the shapeshifter's arms blurred, extending into a sharpened blade of bone that caught Ashura's sword and parried.

(Oh how these creatures seemed to love _that_ particular trick. Spells at a distance - weaponized hands at close quarters.)

That lightning-spell thrown by the false Dynaheir _should_ have caused far more damage, Edwin figured. His best guess was that the girl's cloak carried some sort of strong protective enchantment. _Hmm._ He willed the mephit to shift a bit, trying to get a better look at the cloak. He supposed she had been wearing it a while, but he had not really noticed. _Ah yes._ It appeared to be unblemished fabric of fine quality, obviously empowered with-

The cloak fluttered as the girl showered the doppelganger with sword-blows, and for a moment the fabric straightened enough for Edwin to get a clear look at the symbol stitched across the back. A golden design, depicting a stylized skull surrounded by a ring of tears. And for the briefest flash that skull seemed to be giving him a knowing grin.

There was more going on in the broader chamber, and the mephit's eyes took it all in. The second imposter-mage –the spindly scholar– stood chanting in a far corner, and the other girl –the short one with the red hair– knelt in a spot some distance from her friend and the melee.

In front of a large pile of corpses.

"Come," Edwin ordered. "Quickly." He was already moving as those last images registered. With a shift of focus he could clearly see the tiled floor before him as he went, dodging past pillars that were illuminated by his own bobbing magelight. He took long strides, heedless of the echoes.

"They're in trouble?" the boyish fellow asked, racing to match the red wizard's pace.

"There is a battle, yes." It was possible for Edwin to watch the path before him _and_ what was unfolding in the crypt all at once, shifting between his real vision and the mephit's as one might change focus between objects near and far. A lesser man would probably be overwhelmed by the sense of vertigo that caused (and granted, this was already starting to give him a bit of a headache.) But Edwin persevered.

Before him stood an archway that led to an open chamber and the maze of tunnels beyond. And Before the red-haired girl lay a pile of dead bodies. At first it had just seemed a part of the crypt to Edwin (dead bodies in a tomb: natural enough), but none of the corpses were particularly decomposed, they were stripped bare or dressed in smallclothes rather than burial shrouds, and they were piled haphazardly. Easy enough to guess what had happened here.

The incantation that the false scholar had been chanting came to an end, and now the stiff limbs of some of the dead began to _twitch_ , though their eyes remained empty and their faces slack.

The redhaired girl had been shuddering and sobbing, but now her jaw fell wide, her head tilted back, and her muffled cries became a raw-throated scream. The closest corpse –that of a lad with dark, curly hair who looked about the girl's same age– began to prop itself up against the stonework with a quivering arm. One foot flopped against the floor, then the other, and then it was shimmying and shambling its way up to its feet.

_ She's hysterical. The undead will swarm her.  _ Edwin made his mephit turn slightly and raise its arms. It could swoop in and at least knock some of the walking dead over, though once the scout was discovered-

But the girl had bolted up and onto her feet while Edwin was still pondering, and she acted faster than he would have guessed. Her fingers fanned out, her hands swung together so that the thumbs connected, and her scream –a wild mix of horror, sorrow, and rage– suddenly shifted from a single note to a series of distinct words. A blast of white-hot flame leapt from the redhead's outstretched fingers, roaring across the gap between her and the nearest corpse to light it on fire. Then she was screaming again. Roaring. She took a step towards the rising bodies, spraying flames at everything that moved.

Edwin's eyebrows rose a little _Good. Good! Burn them all!_ With his corporeal vision he glanced around and found the proper side passage; the one his scout had taken moments earlier.

The shapeshifter that had impersonated Dynaheir had now thrown all pretense of humanity aside. It seemed to have grown (expanded, at least), thinning and stretching to tower over Ashura. Pallid, ropey limbs slithered far out from the sleeves and hemline of the thing's frayed black robe, the arms stretching out in opposite directions. Then they lashed in at their foe like sentient whipcords.

One of those tendrils buzzed past Ashura's helmet as she dodged aside, but it twisted around and formed a hook, intent on stabbing her from behind. She did not glance back, her eyes fixed on the faceless thing before her, but she danced and ducked out of the way when the hook whistled in, and then she swerved and turned to the side to avoid the other tendril. Advancing with a hop and a retaliatory, underhanded slash, she cut a swathe across the creature's torso, spraying the floor with ichor.

Edwin's eyes widened.

The sharpened mantis-limbs of the shapeshifter streaked in from the side and overhead at once, but the girl managed to duck backwards and slip to the side, slashing at one of the slender limbs as it passed. Then she straightened and pressed forward, forcing the amorphous thing to wriggle away from her blades.

_ Gods she's nimble. _

By then the flames had died away from the redheaded girl's fingertips, yet there were quite a few corpses (some charred, others untouched) stirring before her. She hopped backwards several steps, screaming all the while. (Hard to hear above the rest of the chaos, but she seemed to be crying out the words 'Not you!' again and again.) At the same time the shapeshifter in the guise of the scholar took a step towards the girl and the flames, beginning some new incantation, and the zombies under its command lumbered forward as well.

They had only made it a step or so when the redhaired girl yanked something out from one of her pockets: a slender bottle of orange glass with a big cork stopper. Her thumb popped the cork out and she held the bottle high, black smoke hissing from its narrow lip.

"NOT YOU! NOT YOU!" Yes, those were definitely the words that she shouted when she hurled the fizzing bottle into the mass of moving corpses as hard as she could.

Smoke sputtered, glass shattered, and then the entire chamber was lit by an expanding fireball. The blast sent the girl stumbling back with her arm over her face, and on the other side of the pile it struck the shapeshifter and enveloped it fully, its flailing arms losing whatever spell it had been channeling as the creature's robes went up in flames.

Elsewhere in the crypt armor clanged and scraped against the floor: the sound of the other shapeshifter finally landing a blow on Ashura. It had slipped and slithered in close enough to hug her, catching the back of her armor with its amorphous hands while it took a stab to the belly, then shoving her flat against the floor. The creature immediately took full advantage and pressed, limbs that had been ropey suddenly bulging with added mass and force; trying to grind the girl against the flagstones.

It was hard to tell if the creature's ever-shifting claws (now more like paws) had pierced Ashura's chainmail, but it all looked painful regardless. Yet, despite all of the thing's effort and bulk, Ashura had managed to keep her swords in hand and press her fists against the floor. She strained and she rose, quivering and struggling against the weight on her back.

Edwin willed his mephit to swoop in and give one of the doppelganger's swollen arms a bite. _Attack!_ At first the creature obeyed, floated forward a foot or so, but then some force seemed to strike it and its whole body started shaking and drifting backwards. Through their link Edwin felt panic.

_ Attack!  _ he ordered again.

_ Can't – can't – can't boss! Demon! It's a demon! _ The mephit was a quivering mass now. Was it truly so cowed by-

With a snarl Ashura pushed up further and her eyes flashed open, a baleful light glowing there – pinpoints of yellow fire. The air all around her shivered, and an unsteady vibration ran through the arm of the shapeshifter as well. She was close to throwing it off.

A blur came streaking in and sank into the shapeshifter's elongated arm with a _thunk_ and a bubbling splash. Tendrils of smoke began to rise almost instantly from the wound, where green fletching shivered and a wooden shaft bobbed.

The creature shuddered, and that was more than enough of an opening for Ashura to strain and and throw it fully off, howling with rage.

The redhead had shot the enchanted arrow, and now she was knocking a second. Behind her something grey and bare slithered in, vaguely defined limbs stretching; readying to envelope her.

_ The other shapeshifter.  _ It had shed its burning robes, and now it was pushing to its feet, but as it did that Imoen switched to a one-handed hold, swirled some object around, and belted out a series of spell-words all at once. She flickered out of sight, the shapeshifter pounced upon nothing but empty air, and at the same time Ashura carved another great hunk of flesh and ichor out of her opponent, sending it tumbling back through the doorway.

All so fast. It was hard for even Edwin to follow.

Dynaheir's familiar voice rang out beyond the crypt, the air in the doorway shimmered, and then Ashura bounced back as she tried to pursue, repelled by a wall of force.

A bowstring thumped and the redhaired girl reappeared, a shadow backlit by flame a good distance from the remaining shapeshifter. Her arrow struck the creature in its trunk, along with a fizz and a splattering sound.

Smoke rising from its wound, the creature reeled back and then shrunk a bit, congealing into the form of the slender woman whose memories and spells it had stolen. Edwin guessed that it now saw those spells as its only hope.

Blocked by the barrier, Ashura had turned and now advanced on the wounded doppelganger, and as she did she passed close to the spot where the mephit hovered and cowered. Looming in Edwin's field of vision, the girl's head turned slightly, then her eyes widened, the pinpricks of fire there now flaring. She snarled and spun, and her longsword came slicing in.

Edwin's view of the crypt lurched and then simply went out, and he stopped abruptly in his tracks, clinching his eyes and scrunching up his face. It had not been painful, having the bond severed like that (and no doubt the mephit had been severed as well…) It was just a little jarring and disorienting.

"What's wrong?" the boyish bard whispered nearby. "Are they in trouble? Did something happen?"

Edwin shook his head, and then he looked around. The sudden change in perspective had made him lose his- ah! There it was! That was the fork that the mephit had taken, searching for the battle. And perhaps if they hurried they could _finally_ catch the false Dynaheir. They were close now.

"Actually," Edwin said as he started forward again, "I believe they have things well in hand."

* * *

Clutching at its raw and open wounds, the Revealer of the Young stumbled blindly through tunnel after tunnel, fat drops of ichor leaving a trail behind. Some sort of explosion rumbled in the distance and echoed off the walls. It was an attack spell, thrown by its Eldest (in the guise of that 'Phlydia' thing.) The Revealer knew this instantly, thanks to their bond.

But the sound of its oldest child still fighting gave it little hope, for the Revealer could feel The Eldest's pain and frustration at the same time. It would not be long now. But the sacrifice would not be in vain. The brood had to continue –to propagate– and The Eldest had not yet grown to the point where it could shed pieces of itself that would adapt, mimic, and grow. the Revealer hobbled on.

It would escape this place. It would find safety in the deepest shadows of the dwarven clanhold, where the other mothers and broods hid, and it would birth a new generation. One that might even seek revenge, someday.

_ 'Bhaalspawn.'  _

The Revealer chided itself, as it would a youngling. It had used that word to taunt the human; even researched the term as it followed through on the witch's memories and the mission that the human Sarevok had laid out for it. Yet it had never truly grasped the implications of hunting prey that was _divine._

Divine did not necessarily mean that the prey was strong (though that demon-female had proven its strength…) but that it was a dangerous thing to even approach. Dangerous because the prey was _fated_ to bring death wherever it went, for its friends and its foes alike. And how do you fight fate?

A difficult thing to kill, that demon-female, but if the Revealer could find a way it would. Some day. Kill the demon-female, and the cowardly elf, and that slippery other-female with the bow, who together had uncovered the brood in its hiding places among the humans and slain so many. The next generation would be taught to hate those three. And they would hunt. Once the Revealer escaped this place.

Suddenly The Revealer stiffened, realizing that a mind approached it from behind. Closing now. It should have sensed the other's thoughts earlier, but they were muddy and churning. Was it one of the four that had come through seeking the battle? But they were ahead! Evaded!

No. This was a different mind.

_ Ah!  _ The empty-mind! The traveling companion and bodyguard of the witch; the one that had been easily tricked that night in the human settlement. Perhaps he could be of use once again: function as a bodyguard and an escort out of this tomb. As Minsc neared the Revealer his thoughts (not thoughts really…just a low hum of emotion) did not seem hostile.

It's back turned to the approaching primate, the Revealer shifted its face and form to match that of the witch, slowing its pace and waiting. A moment later Minsc came trudging around the bend in the tunnel, a torch in hand, its flickering light leading the way. Shadows danced across the big primate's broad and bruised face, one side caked thick with dried blood. He was obviously quite wounded: his gait hobbled, his armor torn open in many places, his greatsword dragged across the flagstones behind him.

"Minsc!" the Revealer called as it (now she) turned to face him, her voice weak and her Rashemi accent thick. "Thank the Three! I only just escaped from the clutches of those…those…" She shuddered.

The great berserker paused, his face unusually hard-set. Then he softened slightly, giving her a wistful smile, and he began to lumber forward once again.

As Minsc drew closer The Revealer could hear frantic squeaks and chitters coming from somewhere on the human's body. The big primate turned his head slightly as he walked, looking to one of his shoulder-plates, and with each step the squeaks grew more insistent. _That rodent._ Its tiny mind seemed to be whirring away. Impossible to read of course. In a way intelligent things often made for easier prey.

"Dynaheir," Minsc muttered as he approached, his tone unreadable. The chirps at his shoulder continued, growing in frequency and increasing in pitch.

Focusing, the Revealer of the Young attempted to probe the human's mind, confused by the blank look upon his face. _What is it thinking?_ But inside that mind all the Revealer found were churning clouds. Grey, they seemed. Listless and…somber? Yet there were still no _thoughts_ to read. Of course that was not unusual. The big bodyguard had always been mostly blank. The empty-mind. It was just that there had always been a jovial tinge to him. Of course, after all these battles…

"Minsc…" the Revealer attempted to probe with words. "We need quit this place. And swiftly. There are still many shapeshifters about."

"I know," Minsc stated solemnly.

"Minsc?"

"Dynaheir…no…" He shook his head. Another step forward, and another. Tensing, the Revealer took a step backwards. "No…" the large human repeated, his tone now bitter.

The Revealer stretched its fingers out. The primate was acting erratic. It would-

But then all of a sudden the human reared back and the wind from its rising greatsword struck the Revealer in the face. Minsc held the sword aloft, arms stretched and the end of the blade scratching the ceiling, showering his bald pate with dust and tiny stones. His eyes were wide now –maddeningly wide– and his teeth were clenched and bared.

In that split-second, as the Revealer of the Young tried to raise its bleeding arms defensively and block, it realized three things. First: that this primate –this wild, unthinking man– had come up from behind. Second: that Dynaheir's memories often referred to Minsc as a skilled tracker. And third: that the Revealer had been leaving a trail of gooey, black, inhuman blood behind it.

But in that same split-second Minsc shouted at the top of his lungs and the greatsword swooped down with blinding speed, its edge striking right between the doppelganger broodmother's eyes as the berserker bellowed: "YOU WILL BE AVENGED!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edwin's habit of referring to people as 'the [noun]' rather than by their actual name was definitely inspired by kaispan's wonderful fanfic Truth or Tale. There are a few other upcoming things in this fic that were also inspired by Truth or Tale, and I'll try to mention them when they come up.


	81. Up from the Depths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein our heroines dream

_"_ _Raven was simply the first nickname that came to mind, on account of her hair. Auspicious, as it turned out."_ –Haer'Dalis of Sigil

* * *

Candlekeep. The gardens at twilight. The fountains trickle as the children run between them. Everything – the marble fountains (like walls), the flower-bushes (like a jungle), and the gnarled fruit trees (like wrinkly claws reaching up and up and up) – everything _looms_ above the scampering girls. It is a world built for titans.

The leafless trees are caked with snow, their jagged branches failing to clutch the stars. The flowers (purple, blue, ice-white and blood-red) are open to the still night air. They seem brittle. Between them fireflies wheel and tumble; languid little candles that illuminate the gardens. A chorus of crickets sings.

Candlekeep as it always was. As it never was.

And as always, Imoen's dark haired friend leads the chase. Even when they had been tiny Ashura had always been faster – always a bit longer and stronger of limb. Not that Imoen didn't try her darndest to keep up, legs pumping away.

Her friend laughs and skitters around a corner in the frozen summer garden. Overhead there's a fluttering noise and the stars wink out. Imoen looks up and gasps, but the shadow is already receding, and all she glimpses is the silhouette of tail feathers and the hint of a great form gliding through the dark.

* * *

Ahead. Ashura always ran ahead of her redheaded friend. Always blazed the trail, even when she was not sure where they were going. Tonight is no exception. The chill air buffets her cheeks as she races. Something seems to be drawing her, but it is only when she peels past a hedge and spots a certain bubbling fountain that she realizes what it is. She slows with sudden trepidation.

This marble fountain is identical to the others, yet there is a memory here. Years ago, back when she was even smaller, she had sat on this fountain's lip while the furious voices of grownups boomed.

There had been shouting. Stomping footsteps. Imoen had been curled up in a ball by Ashura's feet with her hands over her ears. And there had been words which had carried through the clear night air, down from the window. _'That child will be the death of you!'_ She had had spent that night peering into the clear water, pretending it was a scrying pool. A childhood game.

Now she does not want to look into the depths. Overhead she hears wings flap. The starlight dims again, and in the distance a faint _"Cawl!"_ sounds.

* * *

As her friend slows, so does Imoen. Ashura has placed her hands on the edge of the fountain, but she looks pensive. Conflicted. Eventually she leans in and peaks over, then she cocks her head. Seems there's something odd down there in the water. A frog? Maybe a fish?

A wistful voice nearby steals Imoen's attention. "It cannot all be fun and games, my dear." A gentle hand pats her shoulder, she looks up at the towering man in grey robes, and then the garden slips away, receding. She does not mind, for she knows this man quite well. He will protect her.

Now they are walking together, somewhere else. Some _when_ else. Through hardwood halls, worn rugs beneath their feet and the walls all lined with pictures. She remembers each of these canvas paintings clearly: the ship at sea, the verdant forest, the silver dragon taking flight. She will spend years ahead keeping them dusted.

"You're big enough now to start earning your keep," Gorion explains. "And with Mily gone and the baby demanding all of his time these days – well, Winthrop needs all the help that we can provide."

She remembers being leery of the stranger they are now approaching, with his mop of unkempt hair and his big, jowly face. When they reach him and he bends down to look at her she shrinks away, clinging to Gorion's robes. "I'm helping him?" she asks (or remembers asking), incredulous. "He looks like a frog."

The stranger immediately puffs out his cheeks and makes his eyes bulge wide, and then Imoen cannot help but laugh.

More laughter follows. Hours of it. Days maybe. Or is it months? Time goes fuzzy.

Her new father makes every chore a game, and plays along with her as he teaches. She races with his eldest daughter, sometimes slipping on the newly mopped floors. They compete to see who can dust the fastest. They stick-fight with the feather dusters and pretend their brooms are horses. Sometimes dad will stop by to supervise a jousting match and call the winner.

But as the time slips by there's a nagging feeling, and over the weeks and months it just builds and builds. A sense of unfinished business. She needs to find Ashura. But ( _Dernit!_ ) there always seems to be one more chore.

Outside, beyond the leaded glass, the light is dim. From time to time some great form or another will swoop by the window. She hears wings beat. " _Cawl! Cawl! Cawl!_ "

_No more!_ She tosses away her feather duster and takes off down the hall. Ashura! She has to find her!

She leaps down the flight of stairs and runs for the gardens once again. A blink, and then she's there. Right beside the fountain.

* * *

_Look to me. Look to the depths._ The voice is familiar, yet Ashura can't quite place it.

She leans in as far as she dares, and peers into the pool. Funny. She had approached with caution, but there's nothing much there. Ripples. Darkened tiles. Her own reflection in the crystalline light, wings of straight black hair hanging down to frame her face.

Something moves. Up above, in the reflected nightscape. A big, fat raven has alighted on a dead tree branch, its skeletal claws worrying the perch. The branch rocks under its weight but it just leans in and in, head cocking and seeming to peer at Ashura with curiosity. High above the tree countless dark forms wheel.

She turns from the fountain to face the creature, only to find that the branch is bare and the sky is bright with unbroken moonlight and stars. Her eyes turn back, slowly, to the pool, and the raven is still there. Only in the reflection. Only in the depths. It is darker down there than it is out in the garden; a great vaulted blackness that begins to open up beneath her.

A presence slips in beside her, warm and friendly. It's Imoen, trying to lean in and peer over Ashura's shoulder. "What's there?" she asks, curious and casual.

Ashura grabs her sister's arm protectively. She has already seen, and the great vault is widening before her and threatening to swallow. But her sister has not. There's still time. "Imoen," she begins. "Don't…"

* * *

"…look!"

Those words. They bring back painful memories. Imoen's breath catches and suddenly her chest is heavy as lead. _"Don't look!"_

But she had looked anyway. She had to.

And now she looks again, and the pool becomes an open cavern, deep as the Abyss and dark as the void. Vertical becomes horizontal, and now they are standing at the edge of the crypt. Wisps of ghostlight flare into existence, one by one, illuminated the vault. Illuminating the dead.

The place is filled with bodies and familiar faces, bloodless and strewn like wreckage, dressed in the clothes or the armor in which they died. _All_ those empty, bloodless faces; a sea of the fallen. Her murdered friends. Her father. Gorion. Countless others too: bandits, Flaming Fist soldiers, Black Talons, Khalid and Jaheira, assassins and warpriests, Kivan and Brawen, hobgoblins and tortured prisoners and random, unfortunate strangers and-

Gods! So many! Too many! Too many battlefields! Too many disasters!

_Too many! Too many!_

Somewhere beyond the pale, still bodies the darkness writhes. Black wings beat and feathers fly…

* * *

…and the field of the dead changes – no longer covered in corpses. Now the floor is a sea of skulls: the barest, most totemic sign of _Death._ Bleached and hollow, with open black sockets and slack jawbones hanging loose, as if to scream.

_The dead are screaming_ , Ashura thinks wildly, perhaps prompted by the cries of the ravens. The great flock is rushing towards her from the depths of the vault, a wall of feathers and darkness, blotting out more and more of the bones as they near. _The dead are screaming, because they can do no more in this world after what was done to them._ But she can. She can do a great many things. _  
_

The skulls lay still. The ravens are a sea of motion. Their wings beat furiously and their eyes shine, their great talons stretching.

Imoen curls up and covers her face, but Ashura feels no fear as the wave of undulating black reaches them, and then passes by. Wind whips her hair. She turns to follow – to watch the screaming flock fly out from this tomb, and then from the citadel, and then out to swallow the night sky. Their talons are long and curved and sharp, forged for reaping, and as they soar her mind soars with them.

Above the world now, she flexes her claws.

* * *

A muffled scream nearby had Ashura lurching awake, blinking back images of ravens and dark skies. It sounded like Imoen's voice! She tried to scramble to her feet, but a stab of pain in her lower back doubled her over. All the muscles there now felt like a single, twisted knot.

"Shhh!" she heard Viconia hiss. It was pitch black and Ashura's eyes were bleary, but thanks to the enchantment in her helmet she spotted the drow's hunched form: a slender silhouette in the glow of infravision. Viconia's arm was draped over Imoen's shoulder. "Be silent! Silent. You will alert something out there."

Imoen's initial cry had abated now, though she was still breathing hard, and Ashura took a moment to catch her breath as well. Any slight motion seemed to release more stabbing pain through her back, and there was an ache in her ribs a lot like the one she had felt after nearly being crushed by the sirine queen. Three was also a raw, rope-burn sensation across her entire abdomen, stinging badly when her clothes brushed her skin.

"Bah!" That was Edwin, grumbling from somewhere in the darkness. "We are safe enough. The door is sufficiently barred, and my latest scout found nothing out there in the halls. It seems the worst of this place has been bested, so she can shout all she likes (irritating as it is.)"

They all seemed to be packed into this cramped little chamber, and for a moment Ashura thought of the prison cell in the barracks. But no, that's not where they were. The crypts. They had stopped to rest and recover their depleted magic in one of the side-vaults, first barricading the door. She must have passed out leaning against the wall, still injured and dressed in her armor. A real bloody uncomfortable way to sleep, it had turned out.

Adjusting carefully and trying to ignore all the countless aches and stabs, Ashura began to crawl towards her sister. Imoen was still hyperventilating and trembling in Viconia's grasp, and Xan sat right beside her, looking pensive and immobilized. Ashura shouldered her way between him and Imoen, placing a hand on her sister's shoulder and squeezing tight. "It's alright," she whispered.

Imoen whirled, eyes wild and terrified. "You!" she hissed. "You were there in the murder of crows! You flew! Flew right past me and…and…"

Not the reaction Ashura had hoped for, but a breath or so later Imoen squeezed her eyes shut and then shook her head. Her breathing grew steadier after that. "Sorry. Sorry…I…well, yer no crow. It was just…"

"A dream, _abell,_ " Viconia whispered, squeezing the girl's shoulder. "It is passed now."

Ashura didn't believe that, but she stayed quiet, glancing down at her free hand and curling her fingers. Fingers that had been talons a few moments ago. And she and Imoen had shared the dream.

"Simply a dream," Viconia repeated. She glanced around at the rest. "The time we have spent here in the darkness was adequate for Shar to restore my strength. I shall heal who I can, and then we can be on our way. Provided that the rest are able…"

The chamber was suddenly lit by a ball of bright white light, forcing Ashura to squint and turn away. "I am _more_ than ready to be rid of this place," Edwin agreed, his cantrip floating up and beginning to orbit his head. "And my magic is _more_ than up to the task (though after that abysmal 'rest' some morning tea would be nice…)"

Nearby, Garrick was rubbing his eyes and wincing. He had been leaning against a wall as well, and looked pretty groggy. And somehow Minsc still slept, laying on his side on the cold stone floor. His knees were tucked in, his hands were pressed together, and his bruised face seemed serene.

They had stumbled upon the big Rashemi last, as Ashura recalled, and he had hardly looked peaceful then. He had been kneeling in a hallway with his head thrown back, mighty sobs wracking his shoulders and his sword imbedded in the body of a doppelganger which –now in its true form– had seemed to be quite a bit more massive than the others they had faced. As they had cautiously approached the grieving berserker he had repeated some phrase over and over in his native tongue, not seeming to notice them at all.

'What's he sayin'?' Imoen had asked out loud, and Edwin had answered dispassionately.

'He is saying 'I am shamed.' Along with other assorted self-pitying phrases and-'

Minsc had turned and glared up at them then, eyes boring into the Thayan. 'And indeed Minsc is,' he had growled. 'No foe could withstand my blade, but Minsc was bested by trickery and his lack of vigilance. As he was once by _you_ , foul wizard…"

Edwin had held up his hands, and for a moment Ashura had wondered if there would be some sort of violent lashing-out. But instead the Rashemi giant had just looked down at the floor. 'I am shamed.'

It was Imoen who had rushed over to comfort the big man, patting his shoulder and telling him, in every possible way that she could think of, that things were not his fault. 'It's over now. Yer witch would be proud that you avenged her.' In the end Minsc had risen, sluggishly, and followed them, his greatsword scraping the floor behind him.

Seemed a shame to wake him now, but they had to get out of here. It took a lot of shaking from both Ashura and Garrick to rouse the berserker, and they both flinched back when he finally popped up and shook himself like a startled dog. Ashura almost expected a bite too, but once Minsc was fully awake his shoulders sank.

The next challenge was getting the big man to stand, which took some coaxing from Garrick. "It'll be better once we're out of this place," the bard insisted, gripping one of Minsc's arms.

"It will?" the Rashemi asked absently.

"Sunlight. Everything looks better in sunlight."

Once some healing prayers had been spent and everyone's gear was properly in place they dismissed the protective spells on the doorway, pulled away the barricade, and Ashura shoved the door open. Her stabbing pains and burns had receded down to a dull ache now, thanks to Viconia. It was good to be up and mobile again.

Beyond the chamber lay a hallway of finely chiseled stone – far broader, wider, and straighter than the twisting tunnels that had wound through the lower tombs. Unused torch sconces lined the orderly walls, along with little doorways that led into other empty side-chambers. To their right the tunnel marched on into the darkness, and to their left it took a sharp-angled turn that led back to the mausoleum.

"This better be the escape route," Ashura muttered, starting down the right-hand way.

Imoen hurried to slip in beside her, and then a little ahead, her eyes sweeping the floor and the walls as they went. "If it is," Imoen said, keeping her voice low, "it should open into a series of old volcanic caves, and then eventually out to the cliffs. Least that's what I've always heard."

Ashura nodded. "Past the guardian." Some ways ahead she could see another sharp bend in the hallway.

"Guardian?" Xan asked nervously.

"Might just be a legend."

"And supposedly she's only allowed to keep intruders out," Imoen added. "So we should be fine, not being intruders and all."

"Supposedly." That was not a word Xan found reassuring.

Beyond the bend there were no more side passages, and the hallway eventually ended in a wall of unworked stone. There was a narrow, asymmetric opening running down the middle of that wall – the entrance to some sort of natural cavern.

They approached in silence, greeted by the drip of water, and when they reached the lip of the cavern they slowed further at the sound of muffled voices beyond. Imoen took the lead completely, pressing her back to the stone and peaking inside. Next she edged around, then gestured for the rest to follow. The space just inside was narrow; the voices farther in. One by one, they crept along the wall.

"Why, twas in the Year of Shieldtree, I believe…" one of the voices proclaimed, floating clear and high. There was a tinny, metallic ring to it, though Ashura could not distinguish the gender. "No. Wait," the voice went on. "Twas in the Year of the Tomb. Yes. A most auspicious name considering what would happen to me. Although, sadly, I do not think Alaundo had mine humble self in mind when he penned that particular-"

"Yeah, we know," another voice grumbled. It was low, a bit more difficult to hear, and distinctly male. "You've told us this story four times already. The scheming mages who wanted to sack the library and all of that."

"Hrmph!" the tinny voice scoffed. "Well perhaps I merely repeat myself because I wish to prod _thee_ into sharing something of note. I ask and I ask. Just a tale or two! Or some scrap of gossip. Yet you two little apes simply squat and glower." There was a brief silence, and the metallic voice seemed to sigh.

"Hoping you'll get bored and go away," the man muttered.

"Well, thou shouldst be aware by now that such a thing is impossible. The…second part, at least. Going away. Boredom though…now there art a close acquaintance of mine! Little mortals such as thee have no idea! There used to be regular visitors, until those pesky little lizards moved in to infest the front caves. The two of thee art the first guests in…well, decades it seems! And imagine my disappointment. Guests _finally_ pass the lizards by, only to be the biggest bores imaginable!"

"We didn't exactly 'pass them by,'" a third voice snapped, also male. "Those bloody things got Bor and Sakul. And they chased us right into….well, _you_. Sarevok sent us on a damned suicide mission."

Ashura's teeth clinched at that name.

"Aw. Come now!" the tinny voice rang. "Tis _only_ suicide if thou walks forward about…oh, nine more paces or so. In such a case thou wouldst be setting foot upon the official grounds of Candlekeep, and Torth's bindings wouldst compel me to obliterate thee (no ill will meant, of course.) But it need never come to that! Instead, let us tallllk…oh! Oh! What's this?!"

Ashura flinched at that last exclamation, since the metallic voice seemed to have turned in their direction.

"Oh my, my, my!" the voice continued, giddy as a child at its birthday party. "What's this indeed? After such a _horrible_ drought for company it seems that I am experiencing a flood! And there are…seven of thee? At least _one_ is bound to have some news of the outside world! Come out! Don't be shy! I promise not to bite. Thou art all, after all, on Candlekeep grounds."

_So much for stealth._ Shrugging, Imoen slipped fully around the wall. "Hello ma'am," she called, looking up and giving a friendly wave.

"Ah, and we're off to a good start," the metallic voice proclaimed. "Some manners at last! This human behind me, well…didst thou know that in the Waterdeep region his name is a slang term for the buttocks? I can see exactly why his mother chose to call him that. A Prat indeed!"

Imoen giggled nervously.

"So tell me, friendly human: what news dost thou have of the wider world? Is old Khellor still king of Amn? And who won that race through Undermountain that everyone was talking about a little while ago?"

As the voice droned on Ashura slipped in behind Imoen, the others following and keeping close to the wall. Before them a much larger cavern opened, its walls carved from wavy basalt, its floor sandy and moist, and its ceiling lined with distant, dagger-sharp stalactites.

Two heavily armed men crouched against the far wall, and between them floated a great spectral _thing_ , perhaps ten feet long and formed from smoke and ghostlight. Its shape was that of a dragon's hollowed skull, and although most of it appeared wispy and transparent the jawbones did not: they were made of solid silver light, teeth gleaming and sharp. Faint tendrils of glow-mist hung down from those jaws –implying a neck, and perhaps a greater form beneath– and pinpricks of blue-silver fire burned deep within the skull's sockets.

"Uh, no offense ma'am," Imoen said, looking up into those flames, "but there hasn't been a king in Amn for centuries."

The great specter sighed. "Then I have been deprived of company for a _very_ long time indeed." It paused, and then suddenly its jaws rapidly opened, closed, and opened again, giddy laughter filling the cavern. "Ah, silly mortals! A jest! A jest! Of course I know that Amn is ruled by…what is it? Some sort of anonymous council now? It is mildly amusing, watching you little creatures experiment with strange new forms of governance. After some time tis always back to the same old thing, of course."

Beyond the spectral dragon the two men were glaring. One wore fine scale armor, and he had just finished stringing a great yew bow. The other was dressed in a sturdy woolen outfit, with a bandolier strung across his chest (spell components packed in there, or a rogue's grenades, by Ashura's guess.) He held an ornate throwing axe that glowed with faint rune-light, seeming to be testing the weight as he glared directly at Ashura. "You," he hissed, ignoring the dragon.

Ashura glared right back at him and bent her knees a bit, preparing to spring. "Yeah. Me."

Between them the spectral skull bobbed and rotated, looking to one party, and then to the other. "Ah. Acquaintances I see." It bobbed again, as if nodding to itself. "This was to be expected, I suppose, when so many mortals drop into my layer all of a sudden. And it looks like thou art preparing to put holes in each other, but let me warn thee that it would be most impractical to…"

The axe-man wasn't listening; he had raised his arm up, flicked his wrist back, and was about to throw. Ashura felt a tingle in her shoulder and leapt to the side, but before the axe flew Xan managed to rattle out a few stiff words. "I _suggest_ you walk to me."

And with that all of the sharpness left the axe-man's eyes and his arm fell and dangled at his side, only loosely gripping his weapon now. With a slack face and a cloudy expression he began to sleepwalk across the cavern.

"Oh bother," the spectral dragon grumbled.

By then the man in armor had snatched up an arrow, but before he could knock and loose Viconia interrupted him with a shout. "Male! _Walk to me!_ " Seemed she was following Xan's lead. The _command_ echoed off the cavern walls, brooking no descent, and the arrow slipped from the bowman's fingers as he lurched forward and began to march behind his companion, eager to obey.

As soon as the man with the axe had stepped beneath the guardian's skull it reared back like a cobra, silver fire crackling to life in its transparent throat. Its jaws opened wide.

The movement and the flash of light above him shook the man from his stupor and he turned to look up, eyes widening, but inertia took him one step further, and then the coiled dragon's jaws flew down with blinding speed, widening even more. They enveloped the man's upper half and _clamped_ down hard, showering the sand with dark blood. The silver fire flared between the specter's jaws and it reared back up again, leaving the lower half of the man behind to flop forward in a mess of kicking legs and torn, uncoiling guts.

The dragon seemed to _chew_ , and as it did the silver flames behind its teeth roiled and churned. It then turned its head and spat out a burning, charred mass that had been the axe-man's torso, arms, and head just a couple breaths ago.

By then the armored bowman was more than halfway across the cavern, and the specter now turned to him. Reeling back and then rocking forward, it exhaled a narrow stream of the ghostly fire, which flew in an arc to strike the man, first knocking him to the side and then enveloping him. He went up in flames, arms wheeling as he let out a series of high pitched screams. A moment later a crossbow bolt from Garrick struck the man's head and dropped him in a flaming, silent heap.

"There," the specter stated with a bit of a pout. "Invaders repelled, and all of that. I am a good little guardian, aren't I?" It sighed.

"Thanks," Ashura said as she started towards the bodies and the far side of the cavern. "We should get going."

"What?!" The spectral skull practically rattled. "No! No!"

Ashura stopped to look up at the thing warily. "We _are_ free to pass through here, right?"

"Thou art free, yes," the guardian admitted, its tone wistful. "An enviable position. My bindings will not allow me to kill thee for the simple crime of being an obnoxious, ungrateful _bore_ (much as I would like to…)"

"Maybe we ought to stay a little bit…" Imoen ventured. "She's been helpful and all."

Garrick was staring up at the specter too, and when he turned he gave Ashura a forlorn look. Of course _he'd_ want to exchange stories with an ancient dragon. Under different circumstances she certainly wouldn't mind listening either. _Hmm._ She glanced towards the far tunnel. Sarevok already had a huge head start.

"The lizards up ahead will kill you all in any case," the dragon stated offhandedly. "So thou might as well stay and talk a while, before rushing headlong towards thy deaths."

"What kind of lizards are we talking 'bout here?" Imoen asked. "Lizardfolk? Firenewts? Drakes?"

The specter scoffed. "No kin to dragons. Simply…lizards." It bobbed in the air – perhaps its version of a shrug. "Smallish. Though perhaps little creatures such as thee wouldst find them large. And quite deadly. Few mortals manage past…"

"Ha!" Minsc barked. "But we are the few. A den of monsters bar the way?"

"Quite thoroughly. So wouldst it not be for the best-"

"A challenge!" Minsc roared. "No foe has yet withstood Minsc's blade!" Turning sharply from the specter, he unshouldered his sword. "The tyranny of these so-called lizards shall soon end." And with that he began to lumber forward.

"Uh, Minsc," Imoen interjected. "We ought to-"

"For they have not yet met the fury of a brother of the Ice Dragon Lodge!" Each step grew swifter. More assured. "We accept this challenge, dragon lady!"

"Twas no challenge you-" the specter began as Minsc picked up speed, passed Ashura, and raced for the far tunnel. "Art thou _daft_?"

Edwin, Viconia, and Xan all answered at about the same time: "(Very much so)" – "Yes" – "Indeed he is."

Ashura couldn't help but chuckle. Seemed the decision to push on was being made for them. And maybe the madman really would squish the 'lizards' up ahead.

Quick and desperate, Imoen looked up and asked the dragon a question. "So _how_ exactly will these lizards kill us? You seem so sure."

"By petrifying thee with their gaze, of course," the guardian stated offhandedly. "Tis a bit like the manner in which a spider catches…"

All the humor left Ashura. No longer listening, she cringed and briefly shut her eyes. _Shit! Basilisks!_ Turning for the far tunnel, she took off. "Minsc! STOP!" _Should have bloody known._

But now the Rashemi warrior had taken off at a full charge. He disappeared around a bend in a tunnel, and Ashura chased after, hoping the rest would follow. Maybe she could tackle him or something before it was too late.

They passed into a broader chamber that dropped off sharply to the left, and from somewhere far, far below the gurgle and lapping of water echoed up. The cavern smelled strongly of brine. "Stop! Minsc! Stop!" Ashura kept shouting and running, glimpsing the madman's back once or twice as he dashed along the curving path.

Someone was breathing hard and sprinting along just behind her now, and as Ashura spared a glance back she saw that it was Garrick. He had his paralytic wand out and pointed ahead. _Good idea._

The passageway above the water twisted and snaked, and within a few strides Minsc came into view again. He had halted where the pathway forked, one branch going on and the other crossing the gulf in a natural stone arch that led into more caves. Minsc had his head tilted back, as if he were a hound sniffing at the air.

"Minsc!" Ashura called again, voice reverberating, but he just turned back towards her with a big, toothy grin.

The berserker used his greatsword to point across the span of stone. "They are there!" he shouted gleefully. "I hear them! Great and terrible beasts! And they shall feel my wrath!" Hefting his sword high, he charged across.

With a desperate shout Garrick flung his wand forward and used the command-word, a shimmer of enchantment rolling out and across the gulf. There was a brittle, crackling sound as the wand fell to dust, its magic spent, and the wave of energy built and surged, enveloping Minsc in a blanket of roiling air-

-which he shrugged off and surged through with a mighty roar, boots kicking up clods of sand.

_Bloody Hells._ Ashura turned sharply at the fork and raced on, still following. She passed into a cavern, began down the tunnel, and then skidded to a stop. Despite Minsc's undulating roar she could hear skittering up ahead – the familiar sound of a creature with far, far too many legs, its claws all clicking against the floor at once. The same sound she had heard in the stone garden, and then at that warehouse by the docks.

Minsc had already disappeared into the next chamber, his battle cry rising even higher than before. Gleeful and zealous, his shout damn near shook the walls, and sounded like nothing a human throat could produce. More a force of nature. Perhaps he'd just shrug off the gaze of the basilisks as easily as he had plowed through all sorts of paralyzing spells. It seemed as if nothing _could_ stop this lunatic, after all. Nothing could withstand the wrath of Minsc and-

But then the warcry simply stopped, ghostly echoes hanging in the air a moment longer. Then they faded.

Ashura backed up a few steps, then a few more, slipping behind an outcropping of rock. "Damnit!" The others had followed her cue and were getting behind what cover they could as well. Tilting her head, she tried to listen; tried to tell if the scratching and slithering noises from the next chamber were getting closer. "Gods do I _hate_ basilisks."

Edwin approached them, keeping close to a wall and walking at a more leisurely pace than the rest had taken. His sleeves were pressed together, and there was a smirk on his face. And of course he just _had_ to tilt his head back then, letting out a long, deep, uproarious laugh. "What a _perfect_ fate for that imbecile!" Another fit of laughter. "Our eternal Hero! Now immortalized in stone."

"Edwin!" Ashura hissed from behind her rock.

"No doubt his intelligence is now improved."

"Edwin!"

"I wonder if he managed to strike an appropriately heroic pose."

"Edwin! You're a conjurer right?"

"Well, yes. I-"

"So bloody conjure up something to deal with those things! Before they crawl around the corner and start petrifying us!"

Instantly Edwin's face went serious, and he gave her an annoyed look. "That's quite a demanding tone that you are taking…"

"Can you or not?"

"Hmph!" Drawing himself up, Edwin launched into a rapid incantation, hands tracing through the air in a string-plucking motion. All the while he glared indignantly at Ashura.

Within moments the floor lit up in a steady circle of runefire, and inside that circle the ground shimmered, sand and dirt becoming a wavering membrane. Through that membrane two clunky arms burst into view, seemingly melded together from rough bits of stone. Oversized hands gripped the edge of the summoning circle and hauled the rest of the creature's body up and out, one slow, jerky motion at a time. It climbed and straightened with a series of cracks and grating noises: a short, squat, and solid thing, with quartz-crystal eyes and piles of rocks for legs. Then, wordlessly, the rock-creature began to lumber down the tunnel that Minsc had taken.

"There," Edwin announced, brushing his hands together. "They cannot petrify a stone elemental, now can they?" He seemed quite pleased with himself.

"You better not let that thing smash Minsc!" Imoen warned, glaring over at the conjurer.

Edwin actually looked insulted, and without his usual sarcasm he said: "The thought never crossed my mind." He muttered something else under his breath, but Ashura couldn't quite catch it over the hisses, grating sounds, and meaty smacks that began to echo from the next chamber.

They listened and waited, hands on their weapons and trying to judge if the elemental was winning or being torn to pieces. Gradually the noise subsided, and then there was complete silence. No slithering or claw-taps. Ashura waited another moment, then cautiously led them forward.

The tunnel opened into a broad cavern, the floor littered with cracked and jagged bits of stone. Some of them vaguely resembled human limbs, hands, and one or two even looked like pieces of someone's face. Along with the debris lay the pulverized remains of two crocodile-like creatures, their many legs curled up over their bellies, and in the middle of the room Edwin's rock elemental stood sentinel, splattered in blood and missing an arm.

There were human-like statues as well. Close together stood a man in sturdy wool and a halfling in chainmail, their skin now stone and both of them recoiling and trying to hide behind raised arms.

And of course there was Minsc, his mouth frozen wide in a silent warcry, his legs bent as if he was bounding forward, and his sword raised high. It _did_ make for a rather dramatic pose, actually. Atop the petrified man's bald head a tiny rodent seemed to be holding on and riding, its mouth agape just like its human – as if it were roaring.

The other two statues had to be the men that Sarevok's lackey had talked about losing. Ashura marched up to the petrified human that looked to be a mage, gripped his shoulders with both hands, and then shoved him over as hard as she could. When the statue struck the ground there was a great crack, and the arm and head both broke off.

"Hey!" Imoen protested. "We don't uh…we don't know if…"

Viconia had walked over to the petrified halfling by then, and she followed Ashura's lead. There was no shattering when the smaller form hit the sandy floor, but a few blows from her hammer smashed it well enough.

Once that was done, all eyes went to Minsc. "You can't restore him?" Ashura asked the drow, who reluctantly shook her head. When a moment passed without the others saying anything, she turned to the far side of the cavern and started forward again. It seemed that daylight was trickling in from somewhere beyond the next opening, along with the sound of crashing waves. Promising.

Imoen held back a moment longer than the others, looking up at Minsc's frozen form. "I'll come back for you when I can, big guy," she promised before hurrying after the rest.

Beyond the basilisk's cave the path opened up into another large vault which was dominated by an open pit. From below the sound of lapping water echoed up, and a comfortably wide cliff skirted the gulf, eventually thinning and stretching into another natural bridge. On the other side of that span daylight glowed through a wide crack in the far wall, and Ashura hurried towards it.

By all the gods, it would be good to be out of the dark!

Briny air and open blue skies greeted her as she shouldered her way out of the cave and pushed past some low, gnarled branches that were hanging there. The ground was a patchy amber, with faded green here and there; dead autumn grass and sand covering a level surface that abruptly dropped off about fifteen or twenty paces ahead. This seemed to be one of the cliffs just beneath the citadel, shaded by the rocks and the castle walls, and sheltered at the moment from the harsh sea winds. Near the spot where Ashura stepped out from the cavern and the brush sat a couple of low, lean-to tents and a pile of bags, the little camp sheltered between some boulders.

Beyond all of that, at the cliff's edge, stood a man. His back was turned, there was quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder, a sturdy longbow rested against a rock by his feet, and he wore a light chainmail shirt. Judging by his body language it looked like he was pissing over the edge of the cliff.

Ashura didn't hesitate to march directly for the sentinel, and as she did he noticed her and turned his head back slightly. Oddly enough his shout was friendly. "Prat! You came back! I was worried that…" His voice trailed off as he got a slightly better look and then he spun around. "You're not Prat…" Then his eyes bulged with recognition and he recoiled slightly. "It's you!" One of his hands struggled to tuck his member into his pants while the other fumbled for the dagger at his hip.

The world blurred by as Ashura's strides turned into a sprint and she rushed towards the man, both hands stretching forward, then her palms struck his chest and she _shoved_ before he managed to even grip his dagger. Slipping backwards and well-overbalanced, the man barely had time to flap his arms before he pitched over the edge of the cliff and dropped like a stone, too shocked to even scream at first.

She didn't lean forward to watch him plummet, instead turning and starting back towards her companions. The brief, shocked cry that came echoing up and then abruptly stopped told her all she needed to know anyway. That, and the fact that even down here below the walls and some of the higher points it was still well over a hundred foot drop down to the rocks and the surf.

Xan stared at her, aghast. "We should have interrogated him first," he huffed. Beside him Viconia nodded emphatically, eyes narrow.

"Doubt he had anything useful to say." Ashura strode past them. "Come on."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for tonal whiplash. I thought about making the dream its own chapter, but it would have been a bit too short so...eh.
> 
> I owe an enormous amount of inspiration to kaispan for portions of this chapter. I never would have known about Miirym, Ed Greenwood's canonical ghost-dragon guardian of Candlekeep, if it wasn't for kaispan's wonderful fanfic Truth or Tale. Also, the scene with Miirym actually dealing with the invading mercenary party like a proper guardian was directly inspired by similar events in Truth or Tale. I hope it didn't come off as too much a rip-off, though of course if you're going to have a magical guardian in the crypts of Candlekeep it instantly begs the question: 'Why isn't she keeping people from coming in through that escape route?'
> 
> And the fate of Minsc and Boo was partly inspired by the recent Baldur's Gate comics, where everyone's favorite characters come back after being petrified for a hundred years or so. Maybe that's what will end up happening to them here, if Imoen doesn't manage to restore them first.


	82. Wyrm's Crossing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we learn exactly why Edwin always keeps the minor creation spell memorized

_"_ _Laugh if you like, dear readers, but it just seemed as if the time had come to bravely run away."_ –Garrick Anthras, _Terror of the Sword Coast_

* * *

Shoes squeaked against the polished hardwood of the music room, and above that came the rapid _clink-clink-clink_ of steel repelling steel. Skie pivoted, her heel grinding against the dance floor and her knees loose and bent to spring. Her blade shot up – a swing from her opponent tapped it down, and she rolled with the motion, flowing around to circle the man. Sweat stung her eyes, and her breath hissed out in tense, controlled gasps.

Another shoe-squeak. Her opponent turned and went back on his heels. Surely a feint…but no. His lunge took a well-projected path and Skie caught his sword with hers. Caught, then pushed forward, scrapping her blade along his until the blunted point tapped his chest.

They both halted, the man's eyes going to the sword that pointed at his heart, and then Mr. Goldsworth looked up at Skie with a cheery smile. "A touch, Lady Silvershield." His tone was congratulatory, and his sword-arm slackened at his side as he took a step back. "And a fine one too. Didn't see that riposte coming."

Hunching a bit and breathing hard, Skie eyed the man skeptically. _Yes you did._ She had suspected for a while, but now she was certain. Goldsworth was holding back.

Not that their sparring session hadn't been grueling; her aching arm could certainly attest to that. There was a real and brutal weight behind the man's swings, and he had danced around and drawn things out for quite a while. Yet, remembering her duels with Ashura and Shar-Teel –not to mention the times she had fought and killed _real_ men and even magical beasts– Skie realized that she was being coddled. "I told you not to go easy on me," she protested. "How can I ever improve if you do?"

Mr. Goldsworth cocked his head and looked a little puzzled, still smiling his toothy smile. "Gave it my best ma'am. Honest."

"Perhaps I made a poor choice of a husband," Mrs. Goldsworth mocked. She was reclining on a sofa, watching the sparring match. "Getting beaten up by a little girl?"

"And I thought you loved me for my gentle soul, Kay," Mr. Goldsworth replied with a wolfish grin.

It was strange; at first Skie had thought this new guardsman rather stiff and meek, much like most servants, yet when he talked to his wife he took on a rakish swagger that reminded her of Eldoth. There was much about him that reminded her of Eldoth, in fact: the jet black hair, the handsome face, and the confidence – though his features were a little sharper than Eldoth's had been, and instead of a carefully-trimmed goatee Goldsworth sported thick, dark stubble.

And there was something else familiar. Something in his eyes that Skie could not quite name.

Mr. Goldsworth turned away, looking to the table beyond the dance floor where ceramic cups and a pitcher of lemon water had been arrayed. "Your fencing instructors taught you well, Lady Silvershield. I'm not sure how much more I can show you, being honest." With that he began to swagger off, and Skie found herself clinching her teeth and glaring at his back. She had hoped, when Mrs. Goldsworth suggested that her husband might be a suitable sparring partner, that this would be a chance to keep testing the skills that she had learned out in the wider world.

Instead it seemed she was to be treated like a kid. As usual.

A wild impulse seized Skie, and her grip upon her practice blade tightened. She _knew_ this man was holding back. Holding back a _lot._ She tensed slightly, knees bending and her sword rising with a swish. She _knew,_ and she was going to prove it.

She hopped forward, lunging and stabbing at his back. He wore thick padding, the end of the blade was blunt, and if she was right-

The stab never connected. Goldsworth turned a sharp ninety-degrees as the sword whistled by, his own weapon arcing down and catching Skie's with a force that nearly struck it from her hand. Her sword-arm sank, locked, and at the same time Goldsworth pivoted fully and something came whistling in, a blur before Skie's face.

On reflex she dropped down and bent a knee. Wind buffeted her sweaty forehead as a fist passed over – a punch that would have been bone-breaking if it had connected.

Now _this_ was it! An exquisite, thrilling terror, not unlike what she had felt when kobold blades had whistled past her, or when the teeth of a hellhound had _clicked_ together inches from her face. She launched herself up again, shimmying to untangle her blade from Goldsworth's. She managed a stab but he caught her hilt with his.

_'_ _Kick! Kick you idiot!'_ she could hear Shar-Teel shout, and her foot swept in to catch his ankle and yank. Goldsworth sensed that coming, and he tensed and twisted. Her leg tangled with his, then a violent pivot tore her feet out from under her. The hardwood floor came rushing up.

Somehow she managed to brace for the fall, rolling where she landed. Over and over, onto her elbows and knees, and then she was sitting up and ready to launch to her feet.

She thought the rolling had given her some distance, but then he was looming _right_ there in front of her. Goldsworth bent his elbow back, the end of his sword in line with Skie's eye.

Up she looked, from the blade to the man, and his face was…blank. Indifferent. No anger or frustration or even a sign of exertion to him. Ice ran through Skie's veins, and for a moment she thought the weapon would flash forward and cave her skull in. Then Goldsworth tensed, rocked back on the balls of his feet, and his brow furrowed.

A hand patted Skie on the shoulder and made her jump. "Really now, dear," Mrs. Goldsworth chided, right in her ear.

"He _was_ holding back," Skie found herself saying, dumbly.

The old, affable look returned to Mr. Goldsworth's face, as if this were all just a joke to be laughed off. "I suppose I was," he agreed. "A little."

Mrs. Goldsworth _did_ laugh, her hand now resting firmly on Skie's shoulder. It sent a chill down her spine. "Exercise is one thing, love," the tutor said. "You seemed to be chomping at the bit for some. But we can't allow you to collect bruises on that pretty face of yours, now can we?" She helped Skie to her feet.

"I…I suppose not," Skie murmured.

"A sad lesson, but as wealthy and powerful as you may be, there are certain things that you simply cannot do. Cannot do, in fact, _because_ of your wealth and position. You can't become a barroom brawler, for instance. It simply would _not_ work to host lavish balls with a bent nose and a puffy eye. People would talk, delicate political business would not be done…I'm sure you know this."

Skie nodded. "I know. Just…well, out on the trail when we sparred we'd go all out. It was…never mind." She shook her head. "I got carried away." She looked Mr. Goldsworth in the eye. "Sorry I tried to stab your back."

He chuckled. "Hardly the first person to try. Keeps me on my toes." And there was that sly confidence again. Though it quickly faded when his wife shot him a look. "In any case, we're very grateful for this position in your household."

"It was ultimately father's decision."

The guardsman nodded. "But thank you anyway. And I'll be happy to help you keep your sword arm keen and all. Just…I can't really show you all the dirty tricks." He gave her an apologetic look. "Bad for my job prospects if you actually got hurt and your parents found out."

"I understand," Skie said. "Thank you both for indulging me."

"Of course." Mrs. Goldsworth flashed a knowing smile. "It can get rather boring in the gilded cage, can't it?"

* * *

Sunlight had never been more welcome, as far as Edwin was concerned. He allowed himself a moment to straighten and stretch his sore limbs, tilting his head back towards the clear sky. There were faint cracking sounds up and down the back of his neck, making him cringe.

_Bah_. These aches would last for a week or more, after that abysmal 'rest' he had been forced to endure down in the tomb. At least he would be sleeping somewhere proper tonight, now that his magic was fully restored.

The barbarians had taken to sifting through the belongings of the dead mercenaries like a pack of rag-pickers, bending and searching. Edwin spared the garbage heap a glance, but there was nothing of interest there. Of course he _supposed_ that trail rations, bedrolls, and tents might be of use to some people. Perhaps they would find some soap as well. The scent of ghoul had…lingered.

"So what next?" the redheaded girl asked as she did her part to strip the camp.

_Hm._ That certainly was the question, wasn't it? Edwin stroked his moustache, turning and looking out to sea. With a few words he could simply _teleport_ to the Thayvian enclave and deliver a report. Dyanheir was obviously dead, after all.

Of course it had not been Edwin who had slain her, and divinations would prove the fact. And that would be leverage that Denak (that absolute _bastard!_ ) would use for all it was worth. He could already hear it. _'You were tasked with interrogating and slaying the Hathran, and in the end you managed neither. A failure, just as I predicted.'_

He turned back towards the camp, where they were pulling down the canvas tents and discussing their next move. The dark haired girl had her back turned – the grinning, golden skull upon her cloak shifting with each motion. The symbol of the dead god Bhaal, and so brazenly displayed. There was a story there.

(A shame, though, that the cloak covered the region Edwin would rather be watching as Ashura bent and worked. And more a shame that she sported those unflattering chainmail leggings now. He rather missed the leather skirt she had been wearing when they first met…)

And the false Dynaheir had spoken of Bhaalspawn. It seemed as if it _could_ have been a ruse, but after all that Edwin had learned of the prophesy, and all that he had seen firsthand…

No. There was too much mounting evidence: the divine power he had seen the girl wield in battle, the way she had radiated fear like a spawn of perdition, the way violence and destruction followed her everywhere (when they first met there had been a battle, and the next time their paths crossed a _demon_ had appeared out of thin air), and that incident in Beregost where Edwin's wards had held the girl back as if _she_ were a creature of the lower planes.

The conclusion was obvious. This _was_ one of the Children of Bhaal. Perhaps she had even been what Dynaheir was seeking, and the doppelganger had taken the witch's memories and identity for far more than just the arcane knowledge.

Denak might think so, at least. He would see a creature like this as-

"Edwin?"

He looked up. The Bhaalspawn-girl had turned at some point, and now she faced him. He had barely been listening to their conversation. Something about vengeance and a hard march north? "What?" he demanded.

"Just wondering if we're parting ways."

"Hm." He crossed his arms over his chest. "You wish to seek and slay this…Sarevok person?" Yes. That was the name they kept bandying about.

She nodded.

"My _considerable_ arcane talents would aid you greatly in that task, I suppose." He inclined his head. "And I _suppose_ I can help, but once it is done you shall owe me a favor."

She glared. "If the word 'concubine' is involved-"

"Nothing like that. I was thinking more of one of those…hm…those tasks that involve traveling somewhere, and then perhaps chopping a few people to pieces with your swords? You are quite familiar with such things, no? Seems to be your primary occupation."

She nodded. "If we survive this, sure. Favor for a favor."

"Bah. With my talents we shall most certainly survive." Of course he would be keeping that _teleport_ spell handy.

* * *

At the bend where the cobblestone road plunged into the forest Imoen halted, turning back to give Candlekeep one last look. She remembered the last time she had stood in this spot, looking across the narrow causeway to the crown of white stone and conical towers atop the plateau. Back then the trees hadn't been bare. Back then she had felt more giddy than anything else; a nineteen-year-old kid not really understanding the magnitude of what she was about to step out into. Just seemed like a grand adventure.

Now all the butterflies were gone and there was just a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. "This is just like all those stories we grew up reading," she said.

"Huh?" Ashura grunted. "Doesn't really-"

"You know. The adventure tales. Where the hero proves himself with something minor at the start, like fighting giant rats in a cellar. And his hometown is always doomed."

"Oh." Ashura opened her mouth as if to say something more, but then shut it.

Imoen began to walk again, reaching up to grasp and squeeze one of the limbs of her bow. Ashura fell in beside her, and together they went down the road and into the deepening woods. Eventually Ashura spoke up. "We didn't see Lyda, Thrase or Micha down there in…the tombs. They're probably still alive."

"Hope so. Can't see myself going back though, after we brought what we brought in there…" Her voice started cracking a bit before trailing off.

"Don't think about it that way Ims." Ashura patted her friend's arm. " _He_ did this. He killed my father. He sent assassins after me. And _he_ brought those _things_ into our home like a damn plague. And we'll make him pay."

"Yeah." Imoen reached back, tapping her quiver. "I'll make sure to put a couple of holes in 'em myself."

On they walked. The forest was silent save the occasional crackle of leaves or rustle of branches, mostly from nervous little squirrels darting about. By midday clouds had drifted in to seal off the once-clear sky, wavy white and tinged with grey. By midafternoon flakes of snow were drifting down; sporadic little dustings at first, but eventually it thickened, and then as the daylight began to bleed away the snowfall shifted into a drizzle of cold, slushy rain. _Just peachy._

It was slow-going, hiking the Way of the Lion without their horses. Seemed they were in for a long (and probably miserable) march north, hiking...what was it? About a hundred and thirty miles all told? Hopefully it wouldn't be snowing or sleeting all the way.

In addition to losing their horses they had left their saddle bags back at the Candlekeep Inn. Now their miscellaneous baggage (oilcloth tents, traveling rations, toiletries, personal bedrolls, spare clothes) was all gone, along with most of the wealth they had accumulated over the past few months working as mercenaries. They each carried a decent amount of coin and gems in their purses, and they had pilfered enough food, equipment, and money from the mercenary camp to make this journey manageable, but a small fortune was now forever out of reach behind the walls of Candlekeep.

Good thing Shar-Teel wasn't here to hear about that. She'd be livid.

As the rain dripped down Imoen tightened her cloak around her shoulders and raised her hood, and the others did the same. She found herself glancing at Ashura's fancy new cape, with the grinning skull and the stylized mane. Bet there was a story there, though maybe it would be best to ask when they had a little privacy. Ulraunt had been pretty casual with the B-word, but she wasn't sure if _everyone_ knew yet that Ashura's dad had been Old Murder-Face, or how they'd all react.

Faint gold threading spelled something out across the hem of the cloak in flowing Infernal script. Not a language that Imoen understood much of, but she knew enough about enchantments to fill in the blanks. Some sort of _Cloak of Resistance,_ by her guess. Seemed pretty handy. Unless Shura ran into some zealot who took issue with her sporting a dead god's colors. From what Imoen had read it seemed that the gods held all sorts of weird, complicated, and ancient grudges. Often times their mortal followers would carry that stuff out too.

Shura likely wasn't too aware of that, being as she had never showed the remotest interest in the finer points of religion. Imoen had always been fairly certain that Shura had just picked a patron deity because someone had told her that she had to, and with about as much thought put into the matter as a teenage boy puts into picking Sharess.

Not that Imoen was really one to talk. 'I like being tricky. So I'll pick a trickster god!' Yeah. A lot of thoughtful prayer went into that decision.

Eventually conversation on the road turned to the search for a good spot to make camp, and perhaps fifteen minutes later they found a decent clearing with sheltering rocks and an old fire-pit used by countless travelers-past. Imoen was _not_ looking forward to setting up the two little pilfered tents (just a pair of canvases really), but to her _absolute_ shock Edwin, of all people, proved their savior.

"I've a sheltering spell," he stated as they shuffled into the clearing. "And I _suppose_ that you rabble could fit under its roof."

"Sheltering?" Ashura asked.

"I will demonstrate." Throwing out his hands and facing the open ground, the red wizard muttered something and made a few grand gestures. There was a faint buzzing in the air, and then a dome of what appeared to be some sort of arcane force wavered into existence before him, a dull burgundy in color and about the size of a small hut. Without further ado Edwin rolled up his sleeves and strode forward. There was a little rippling as he passed through the envelope of the construct, and then he was inside.

The misting rain began to bead along the slope of the conjured bubble, flowing in little rivulets here and there. Imoen just shrugged and went in next, the opaque wall warbling before her as she passed through what felt like empty space. Sure enough the interior of the little dome was sheltered from the rain, and significantly warmer than the outside. The contours of the trees and hillocks beyond its walls were visible, faintly, as if seen through distorted and rose-colored glass. "Well, this sure is handy," Imoen announced. "Yer gonna have to teach me this spell!"

Edwin shot her a glare. "I 'have to' do no such thing! Know that you are my guests in this place, and I fully reserve the right to eject any who become overly nuisancesome."

"Of course," Imoen agreed with a dramatic (and sarcastic) little bow. "Oh mighty lord of the tiny magic bubble."

Ignoring that, Edwin turned his back to her and aimed another spell at the far end of the dome. A few waves of his hands summoned up curls of ethereal mist, which swirled and then solidified into the wooden legs and then the frame of a mahogany bed. More wisps of protoplasm topped it, wavering and becoming clean white sheets, several stuffed and brightly colored pillows, and then a colorful blanket.

Some sort of _creation_ spell, by Imoen's guess; the same one that Edwin had used to fill the doorway of the Candlekeep barracks with a wall of wood. The conjured object would dissolve when the spell wore off. Made the prospect of oversleeping kind of unpleasant.

"Normally," Edwin grumbled, "if this space were not so crowded I would conjure up more furniture. A chair and tea table, at the least. So I hope you appreciate the sacrifice I am making on your collective behalf."

"We'll uh…do what we can to make the place luxurious," Garrick said, starting to spread out one of the tent canvases that they had been carrying. Once the canvas was in place he went to laying out a little supper for them all: bread, cheese, and salted fish from the mercenary camp.

Imoen found that she didn't have much of an appetite, sitting on the ground with the rest of them, her feet and knees together and a tasteless little hunk of bread between her fingers. She munched a little, staring off at nothing, and stirred when she felt a warm presence against her shoulder. Xan had scooted close to her side, placing placing his arm around her and gripping her far shoulder, and when she turned she saw that his lips were a tight line, worry in his eyes.

Worry, and understanding too. _We've all lost a lot, haven't we?_

She held his gaze a moment, eyes stinging, and then she looked away, though she gratefully wriggled up against him. Her temple nudged his collar, resting there. Her bread went uneaten, and sometime later they all rose and spread their bedrolls out.

* * *

Sometime before dawn on their fourth day of marching Ashura was awakened by a gentle shake, and when she stirred she found Viconia looming over her. The drow's eyes glinted with a violet phosphorescence in the near dark, thick white hair framing her face. When they were away from civilization the cowl and mask were always discarded. "Your turn," Viconia whispered. "The final watch."

With an absent nod Ashura went fumbling for her discarded armor. She tried to slip it all on quietly, for the sake of her companions, but that proved an impossible task, so she settled for just getting the rattling and clinking over with. The coat of mail came over her head and shoulders, then she stepped into her leggings. Viconia helped her with the straps.

As Ashura adjusted her helmet and her swordbelt she glanced around their strange little camp under the darkened dome. In the dim light her companions just looked like lumps in their bedrolls, strewn out near the foot of Edwin's ridiculously gaudy, conjured bed. Elaborate geometric patterns were carved into the posts, and the blanket was dyed with golden fringes, fields of royal purple, and -of course- a great deal of red.

Viconia had spread out her bedroll and was now peeling off her leathers in preparation for a brief nap, Garrick stirred a little from all the commotion nearby, and on the other side of the crowded little shelter Imoen lay curled up and tangled in her bedroll. Beside her Xan stretched out on his back in a serene and almost corpse-like position, and Ashura noticed that his eyes were open slightly and tilted in her direction. She gave him a stiff little nod and turned away, walking towards the edge of the bubble.

Passing through the barrier felt like nothing, but Ashura reflexively closed her eyes when she took the final step into the icy foredawn air. She adjusted her cloak and opened her eyes to the crisp darkness, beginning her little patrol around the magical shelter.

They had made camp in a nook of scrappy little cedars and pine saplings well off the road, the low branches mostly blocking the clearing off from the outside world. At one side of the grove a narrow deer trail led back to the Coastway, though the road was not visible yet.

After one circuit of the bubble Ashura tried to rest on a stump and simply watch the dark, but the cold soon had her up and pacing, blowing on her hands and rubbing them together to keep warm. Useful as the enchantment woven into her gloves could be, she really wished right now that they weren't fingerless.

Blue-grey light began to peak through from the horizon as the little vigil went on, and the distant trees and edges of the hills grew more pronounced. Clouds of mist clung to the hillsides, and greater banks of the stuff covered the lowlands and the Coastway, shrouding them completely.

After another march or two around the camp it seemed that the morning mists had thickened. A wall of grey had rolled in from the road, swallowing many of the trees and turning those closer by into sketchy black lines. Ashura stopped and watched the world grow more and more obscured, clutching the hilt of her longsword. Maybe it was just natural mist, but…

She tilted her head from side to side, listening. Sure enough she soon caught a faint sound coming from the mists. The tromping of a horse's hooves.

Varscona slipped from it's sheath as Ashura heard the horse draw closer, and then the sound of the hoofbeats stopped. A little pause, and then leaves rustled, nearer and nearer. Finally the source of the sounds came into view – at first a dark shape, but it soon resolved into a lone figure dressed all in black. Ashura had both swords out and ready now.

It appeared to be a woman, and one with unusual features: with almond eyes and a face more rounded than typical in the Western Heartlands. A traveler from beyond the Golden Way, by Ashura's guess, though her experience with easterners was limited to a couple of visitors to Candlekeep and pictures from books. The woman's hair was long and brown, her skin was pale, and she wore a fur-lined cloak over some sort of black plated armor, custom tailored to be relatively slender. Unfamiliar, yet there was something about her that Ashura recognized. _Hm._

"You an assassin?" Ashura called out, loud as she could. Hopefully the others would hear.

The stranger raised two open hands. "No," she said with an accent Ashura did not recognize. "I come to deliver a message. To help, not hinder."

_Uh huh._ Ashura glanced back towards the dome. She figured it was her job to alert the camp, regardless of what mysterious strangers in black were claiming. But Xan and Edwin were already standing there, just outside, separately watching the scene. Seemed the camp was already pretty alert.

It figured. Xan had those ears of his, and barely slept. And of course Edwin had always been an early riser.

She turned back to the stranger. "Deliver a message to whom?"

"You are Ashura Adrian of Candlekeep, yes? And you seek Sarevok's downfall. He has done you great harm."

"That's putting it mildly."

"Who are you?" Xan asked flatly.

"Tamoko. A priestess of the Way."

"(An elegant way to tell us nothing)," Edwin muttered. "Who sent you woman? To whom do you owe allegiance? (Hm. She is no Harper. Nor Zhentarim either.)"

"Sarevok wishes to plunge the entire region into war," Tamoko said, ignoring the Thayan and fixing her stare on Ashura. "A great, bloody sacrifice which he believes will elevate him among the Bhaalspawn. Is it so unbelievable that a member of the Iron Throne who has learned the full scope of his plans might wish to topple them?"

_Ah._ It figured. One of the enemy – or a former enemy, if the woman was to be believed. Perhaps that's why she seemed familiar. Maybe she'd seen that black armor back during all the fighting in the tower. Maybe they'd tried to kill each other a tenday or so ago.

Tamoko had shifted her gaze now, her head turned to the left. "I see you there, by the way," she said, looking to the spot where Viconia crouched at the edge of the cedar grove. Then Tamoko opened one of her hands and whispered something, conjuring up a fat red flame that danced upon her palm. "I am not without my defenses. Though I would rather parlay than place a wall of Kossuth's fires between us."

Not saying a word, Viconia simply straightened up to her full height and crossed her arms at her chest.

Now Tamoko addressed them all. "None of us wish to see Sarevok succeed, I think. So hear what I have to say, and perhaps we can end this."

"Why not go to Duke Eltan?" Xan asked. "If you are aware of a plot then-"

Tamoko shook her head and cut him off. "You have not heard, have you? Eltan hovers at death's door. He never recovered from his poisoning. He has not been _allowed_ to recover, in fact. Sarevok has agents among the Flaming Fist, and at the highest level. You cannot trust them."

"That is…just lovely," Xan muttered.

"The law may be mobilizing against you, in fact. I would suggest moving swiftly, and exercising stealth."

Xan looked down. "Lovely, lovely, lovely."

"If anything she is saying is to be believed," Edwin pointed out.

"She is not lying," Viconia said. "I shall inform you when she does."

Tamoko gave her a slight nod. "Good. We have an understanding? You may do with my information as you wish. I simply ask that you listen."

"We are," Xan agreed.

"Very well then. Sarevok has seized the Iron Throne completely, as you may know, and now he plans to take the reins of the entire city in one swift coup. Doppelgangers have been placed among the nobility, and assassins await the order to strike and slay one of the grand dukes. When that happens the planted nobles will agitate for an emergency council to elect a replacement, citing the fact that Eltan is incapacitated and that the city needs a war duke. They will then insure that Sarevok is elected to that position, and immediately after the proceedings the assassins will slay the remaining two grand dukes. If all goes as planned the entire massacre will be blamed on Amn, and Sarevok will immediately march to war."

"Sweet Seldarine," Xan muttered. "Will they truly follow-"

"He will have a loyal force, yes. Sarevok has done much to shore up his position as the heralded war duke. He has provided arms and armor for the Fist, and bolstered their ranks with his own forces. After all: you did not slay all of the Iron Throne's own soldiers, nor all of the Black Talon company. They shall be marching to Amn as well.

"And that is the conspiracy, laid bare." Tamoko made a two-handed gesture as she finished. "But there is still a way to stop it. When you reach the city seek out a woman named Cythandria. She is Sarevok's personal bookkeeper, and will be guarding documents that could unravel all of this. The coded message that is to be sent to the assassins, for one thing. If you can reach her before they are activated there will be no opening for Sarevok to fill. More importantly, she carries a list of all of Sarevok's assets within the nobility."

"A grand list of doppelgangers?" Xan asked.

"It is not spelled out as such, but yes. A list of names. With it you could uncover the last of the shapeshifters, and prevent the vote. She moves about, but I would first search for Cythandria in the Tower of the Iron Throne. It is mostly abandoned now, but she still uses the offices."

"And does Sarevok?" Ashura asked. "Where is _he_?"

"Cythandria will be much less protected-"

"I don't care! Where is Sarevok?!"

"She has not lied," Viconia stated coldly, "but she knows more than she wishes to tell us. We should not allow this woman to-"

A sputter followed by a _whoosh_ cut off her words, lines of flame erupting from the cold earth. They burned low but bright, trembling with pent-up fury and blocking Tamoko off from two sides. Seemed the threat to call up Kozzuth's flames had not been idle.

"You _will_ allow me to leave," Tamoko said. Somewhere back in the mists a horse whinnied. "I have told you what I can. I suggest you seek Cythandria. And that whatever you do, you hurry."

With that she turned on her heel and the fires roiled up into a towering curtain of flame. The heat forced Ashura to turn her head and take a few steps back, and once the flames died down Tamoko was gone, along with the morning mist.

* * *

Two days later, in a little clearing near the banks of the Chionthar, they stopped and waited for night to fall and for the darkness to deepen. It would not be a particularly long wait, this time of year when the days were grey and crisp, and sundown was never far. Some fallen logs made for convenient seats, and Xan sat down upon one of them, opening his spellbook in his lap.

He had, of course, gone over this particular illusion several times already with Imoen. Still, it was comforting to know that the neat little curves of the diagrams were still there, and that the words still read exactly as he remembered them. Curves and waves, words detailing refraction and perturbation, and the blank, bracketed spaces where imagination must be employed to bring those concepts to life: all this was crammed into a little less than two pages, easily visible as a whole.

As usual Imoen settled in beside him, and Xan gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Shame infravision doesn't let you read in the dark," the girl noted. "Yer gonna strain yer eyes."

"My people devised a solution to that ages ago," Viconia interjected haughtily. "Thermal ink can…" Concern entered her voice and it trailed off. She glanced around, then leapt to her feet with a hiss, a chakram appearing in her hand. "The _rivvil_ male! He is gone!" She whirled, cloak swishing as she searched. "Has he betrayed us?!"

Xan peered about as well. Edwin's red cloak stood out bright as ever –and the Thayan looked a little puzzled– but Garrick was nowhere to be seen.

"He hasn't," Ashura said, brusque as usual. She was not searching. "It's fine. That's as far as he was going to go with us."

That hardly seemed to reassure Vicocnia. "A word of this earlier would have been appreciated. You have…sent him for something?" Obviously unnerved, she gave the forest one more sweep of her eyes. Xan supposed that he should be feeling guilty at the lapse as well. His old instructor would certainly be chiding him. _'A Greycloak misses_ nothing _!'_ and all of that. But that training seemed a lifetime ago.

"I asked him to leave," Ashura said. "He's probably on the road to Berdusk now. Maybe he'll find a printer for his book there." She forced a smile. "Make us all famous."

"Your prerogative as his mistress, I suppose." Viconia wrapped her cloak around herself and settled back down. "I would have preferred to be informed."

Under his breath Xan whispered an incantation, then flicked his eyes up and fixed his stare upon Ashura. _The drow makes a valid point,_ he projected. _The appearance of secrets does not engender trust, and you appear to be keeping quite a few._

Ashura glared at him.

_I apologize, but-_

_No, it's okay Xan_ , she projected back through their link, holding his gaze. Her look even seemed to soften a bit. For her. _I trust you, after all we've been through. You're welcome inside my head._

His eyes widened a bit. Not exactly the response he had been expecting.

_A seer told Garrick that he would die if he followed me back to the city. You can maybe see why I didn't want to share that. We all know that we're walking into danger, but prophesies of death on top of that…Viconia and the Thayan might get second thoughts._

Xan nodded. _That is…surprisingly wise of you._

_Guess I have my moments._

_You may make a competent leader yet._ He glanced back down at his book, but Imoen was right. The light was really too dim. _Though perhaps it would have been better if you convinced the bard to stay. I got the impression he would have followed you anywhere._

Across the little clearing Ashura cocked her head at him.

_A lesson in leadership: know that we are_ all _expendable. Especially if what that woman told you about the coming war is true._

On the other side of the link Ashura was silent a moment; just a low hum of emotion. _All of us?_ She gave Imoen a significant look.

Xan drew in a long breath. _Yes. Even her._

Ashura looked away, and for a long time all was silent in the grove. The air was growing chilly, and soon stars began to peak through the pale sky. After twenty minutes had passed, and it had grown truly dark, Xan had long ago assumed that the linking spell was forgotten, but then Ashura's voice sounded in his head, out of the blue. _Imoen's a Bhaalspawn, by the way._

_What?!_

_My father left a letter. Explained that he rescued us both from a temple of Bhaal. I don't know how familiar you are with the prophesy-_

_Just a little. Matters of the human gods are often ignored by my people.  
_

_We were sired by the Lord of Murder to…herald his return, or something like that. Me and Imoen. I should have known. We were both taken in and raised together, younger than anyone else who's allowed in the keep. And there was…a dream that felt like more than a dream, where Imoen said 'We are both children of death.' But…guess I just didn't want to believe it. So yeah, Imoen's some sort of godling. A walking force of death._

Xan glanced at the young woman who sat beside him and then back to Ashura, opening his mouth…then closing it. Flashes came to him of countless battles: arrows spastically _pluck-plucking_ away and plunging into eyes and necks and hearts. A redhaired girl gleefully popping up behind an archer or a hobgoblin to slit their throat, casual as can be, before dancing away to find another target. He wanted to say 'I can't see it.' But really…he supposed he could. _You informed her, of course?_

_There hasn't been a good time. It would have been so much easier to just hand her the letter, but I-_

_You_ **need** _to tell her!_

_I will, next time we're alone. Or you can, if I don't get the chance…_

Xan sent her a mental groan, and again they fell silent.

Not long after that Imoen popped up and onto her feet. "Seems dark enough," she said. "Ready for the last big march?"

"Yeah," Ashura agreed. "Fast as we can. Let's get this over with." She turned towards the road, and the others filed in behind her, getting close together in two compact little lines.

Imoen shared a look with Xan, and then in unison they both began to chant. Side by side, their fingers wove through the air and their voices mingled, and soon trails of gossamer-light began to flow from their fingertips, expanding and snaking out. The threads of illusion curled and wrapped around the five of them, settling in layer by layer.

Working in tandem, the pair bolstered each other, Xan forming the shapes and sounds while Imoen providing the colors and textures (and smells, should anyone inspect them that closely.) When it was done all five of them appeared to be scruffy, bearded men in rough-spun clothes, two of them with bundles of netted fish on their backs and all carrying fishing poles.

A nondescript disguise, in case what Tamoko had said about agents within the Flaming Fist was true. Earlier Imoen had brainstormed a lot of ideas about illusory disguises: a Flaming Fist patrol ('That might draw too much attention from the guards,' Xan had said), or a donkey cart ('They may suspect smuggling and demand to search the cart, creating complications'), but in the end they had decided on the simplest thing: rough, plain, and harmless looking peasants. They would pass beneath the eyes of the guard easily enough, or so they hoped.

"We need to stick together," Imoen announced, though the mouth of the bearded fisherman did not move.

"And should we be questioned," Xan added, "there is no need for anyone to speak. I shall provide the voice of our 'leader.' And add more persuasive magic if necessary."

"Shouldn't you be up front then?" Ashura asked.

Xan made a noncommittal noise. "Er. In my experience it is always best to put the…heavily armored person in front. I am quite content to linger behind and provide the illusory sound."

"Coward…" Viconia muttered.

But Ashura just snorted. "Love you too Xan." With that the bald, heavyset man at the front of their little procession started marching towards the road, and the rest followed. They started down the weathered cobblestones, past lines of trees that gradually thinned to reveal the slow course of the great river beyond.

The Chionthar was a broad, flat smear of glittering black in this light, and the Coastway climbed high above its banks for a time. Perhaps a half-mile went by like this, through sparse and quiet woodland above the gurgle of the river. Little cottages and farms dotted the forested hills to their left, warm golden light peeking through their windows.

Then the highway crested a hill and the hulking walls of the city came into view, straddling the Chionthar and peaked with torchlight and towers. The road meandered on a little ways, following the walls and the watercourse, and then it bent sharply towards the river and the imposing bridge of stone that spanned it.

The Wyrm's Crossing.

In the darkness it was hard to make out the full shape of it; the towering gates were just vague black forms that blotted out the stars and city lights, topped by a pair of torches that served the lookouts up there. As they trudged on towards the first tower-gate Xan tried very hard not to think about those lookouts, or what they might notice.

_Oh_ how he wished that he had learned and mastered a spell to cloak everyone in invisibility! Or perhaps taking a boat into the city would have been more inconspicuous. They would have had to risk the guards who watched the river, but right now anything seemed better than looking up at the sharp, gaping maw of the first portcullis. It loomed, then it drew closer, and then they passed beneath its teeth.

Their footfalls echoed off the stone arch, and then they were beyond the first gate and on their way across the wide, straight span. The middle tower-gate was the largest of the three, but there seemed to be no activity above. _Strange._ There was much bustle the last few times. Xan craned his neck, and spotted one impassive face looking down upon them. A single lookout.

They neared the middle tower, and the teeth of the portcullis almost seeming to _promise_ that they would soon come slicing down. Any moment. Any moment. Then they passed on through the shadows and beyond, the far bank of the river coming into sight.

All was silent, the murmur of the city muffled by the thick stone walls just ahead. Once they rounded the bend there would be activity of course: the treble of tavern music and the call of prostitutes, the drunken laughter of the sailors and the sellswords who frequented the Elfsong, the barking of the night-merchants around the fountain and the clinking of pots and the low growl of alley cats stalking their territory and the hum of countless distant voices. But for the moment there was only trickling water and echoing footfalls.

It would be such a relief to turn that bend and pass into the city; to disappear into that crowd. Just a few more spans of stone. One more gate, at the end of the bridge.

Of course it _almost_ felt like a relief to Xan when a harsh white light flickered into existence at the top of the tower, illuminating a man in a red uniform who was drawing back a bow. Finally! A release from the churning dread that had been festering in the pit of his stomach for so long! That it was replaced by the immediacy of heart-hammering terror…well…he knew how to deal with that.

Xan raised his hands and called up his _arrow shield_ spell with a quick word, ignoring the rumble and _thunk_ of the falling portcullis several paces behind them. (The trap closing. Somehow it hardly came as a surprise.) The faint violet membrane of the shield bloomed around him, and at the same time the man in red's bow creaked and the string thumped.

The enchanted light that had first lit the night radiated from the head of the drawn arrow itself, and now it arched down through the air, a streak of crackling white. Xan cringed back and so did the others, but the arrow struck the surface of the bridge a good five paces ahead of them. He had no time to try and make sense of the miss – the next thing he knew everything was a blinding white and his feet were no longer on the surface of the bridge.

Pitching wildly, the wind crushed from his lungs and his ears ringing, Xan flew. For an eerily long moment he found himself looking up at the clear winter stars, dim behind the lights that danced before his eyes. Then came a bone-jarring _impact_.

Sharp pain, then numbness. He drew in a shaking breath, squelched his eyes tightly shut, and shook himself, trying to get oriented. To move. Blinking, he saw the others around him, all flattened by the explosion, the illusion stripped away by the break in concentration. Ashura had already rolled onto her feet. Xan tried to follow, sitting-

A wave of something heavy and grey struck them all, and with another painful bang Xan was flattened against the ground once more. This was no explosion, but something soft and heavy. He looked around. Some sort of glistening netting covered them all, and the others were struggling. Getting tangled too. Ashura snarled and shook against the stuff. Viconia cursed. Edwin drew in a deep breath and chanted something, rhythmic and quick. A shimmer ran over his body, he faded from sight, and the netting around him slackened…

…and then he lurched back into existence with a faint _woosh_ of displaced air and the webbing expanded a bit, holding him tight. A long string of Mulhorandi curses followed.

Xan turned his attention ahead, flat on his stomach beneath the webbing. A line of Flaming Fist soldiers was cautiously approaching them now, and in the lead strode a man in a crisp red-and-white uniform, a longbow resting against his shoulder. Angelo Dosan, the Flaming Fist warmage.

Xan narrowed his gaze, tried to catch his breath, and focused solely on that man, looking him in the eye. Once the distance had nearly been closed he opened his mouth and carefully intoned the words: "I _suggest_ you dispel thi-"

That was as far as he got before Angelo bolted forward and the oaken butt of his longbow cracked against Xan's jaw. He twisted to the side beneath his bindings, cheek scraping the stone. He tasted blood.

"Gag this elf," Angelo ordered. "The Thayan too. And do it quick. Don't want any of them slipping the noose."


	83. A Great and Terrible Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the Flaming Fist bungles something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE thankyou to kaispan for helping with this chapter. You're the best.

_"_ _Why does Death so often spare heroes? Because of all the business they give Him, of course."_ –Shandreth of Highmoon

* * *

Seemed the more Ashura struggled, the more the damn stuff stuck to her. Didn't stop her from trying, though. Twisting and thrashing had gotten her nowhere –just tangled up– so instead she stilled herself a moment, drew in a deep, hissing breath, and pressed her fists hard against the surface of the bridge. Wire-sharp webbing dug into her neck and back, and the net held tight.

Nearby, a soft thump and a pained cry sounded, followed by a low moan, clearly from Xan's nasal voice. "Gag this elf," Commander Dosan snarled from somehwere above.

Nose to the ground, Ashura inhaled again, tightened her fists around the hilts of her swords, and _pressed._

"The Thayan too," the prick added. "And do it quick. Don't want any of them slipping the noose."

There was just a _little_ give from the taut and tangled webbing now, enough for Ashura to lift and tilt her chin and glare up at Commander Dosan's haughty face. He seemed to be examining her; a careful, measured look.

Eyes locking with his, Ashura bared her teeth in a grimace, slackened her shoulders just a bit, and then tensed and _pushed_ again. Some of the strands budged, giving her enough space to brace her toes and splay her legs now, but the commander just shook his head and turned away, surveying the other prisoners.

Ashura turned away too, looked down to the unyielding stone beneath her, and then she brought all of the pressure and fury that she could to bear. The ropes bit deep, chainmail rattled, and then warmth welled up inside her; a fire that crackled to life in the pit her chest and flowed out into her limbs. The strands groaned now, the one that had been digging into her left shoulder shrinking to almost nothing, fuzzy bits of filament tickling her cheek. It had frayed.

Commander Dosan's soldiers were close by, a line of boots and chainmail leggings that lingered at the edge of the web, trying to work with gags and manacles without getting tangled up themselves. Now they shuffled nervously, a few instinctively stepping back. "Uh…sir?" one of them stammered.

_Snap!_ The string at her shoulder broke and Ashura jolted up a few finger-widths before the rest of the web caught her – stretching thin. Every strand was fraying now.

The guards shifted, as did their spears and crossbows. "Sir. I think she's…"

_Snap!_ There was an almost musical tone when the strand broke and curled. Now she had a foot braced against the surface of the bridge. One quick breath, a snarl, and then she _rose._

_Snap!_ Rising- _Snap-snap-snap!_ A quick succession –a cascade– and then the strands and their weight were gone and the standing motion became a _leap_ , her swords flashing up before her.

In unison the soldiers shrank back, holding out the hafts of their spears or their crossbows like feeble shields, their eyes shining with fear. Even Commander Dosan faltered briefly, fighting a visible shiver as Ashura landed in a crouch and _pushed_ at the whole line of them with all she could muster, the air before her suddenly thick with fear. Thick with power. Thick with Perdition's blaze.

She bounded forward and slashed wide, chopping through the mail and belly of the nearest soldier -the only one who'd been too terrified even to stumble back. The man crumpled and Ashura pushed past, her glare focused solely on Commander Dosan, who had dropped his bow and drawn his longsword.

A flash of steel from the right. One of the Fist soldiers had pushed his way through the terror, thrusting ahead with his spear, and Ashura had to skid and weave out of the way. Dodging. Dodging. And then a slash from Varscona caught the spear. The longsword slid along the spear-haft, pushing past the guardsman's reach.

The man tried to shrink back, but Ashura's shortblade caught him, piercing his chest and sending him stumbling back against the stone railing of the bridge. His spear fell away and he clutched at his wound, leaning precariously over the rail.

She swung Varscona, aiming to knock him off completely, but-

-instead there was just a dull _thwack_ and a jolt of pain ran through her arm, everything in front of her suddenly warping and going monotone. The terrified face of the soldier seemed to stretch and curve, as if seen through imperfect glass, everything now a dull, ruby-quartz color.

Ashura whirled around, but the barrier surrounded her, humming faintly. She slashed again, but that just jarred her arm. Commander Dosan stood a scant four paces away, and with her eyes fixed on him Ashura let out a frustrated snarl and began to beat on the magical cocoon with the pommels of her swords.

Nearby, an ancient man with papery skin and a streaked, black and white beard ambled in beside the commander, lowering outstretched hands and claw-like fingers. Seemed he was the one who had conjured up the trap. He eyed his handiwork, then turned to the Dosan. "We should kill her here," he advised, his accent distinctly foreign. Sounded a bit like Minsc's. "She is dangerous."

Commander Dosan glared ahead a moment, giving Ashura a long, fixed look. A soldier who wore the watchful eye of Helm upon his tabard had moved in to assist the man she'd nearly thrown from the bridge, one hand holding his shoulder steady and the other buzzing with a healing prayer. The other wounded man was being bandaged.

Eventually Dosan shook his head. "She's the face on the wanted posters," he said. "We need a confession. Then a good show on the gallows." He turned to the old man. "And it is not your place to tell the Fist what it should do with its prisoners, Perorate. Much as I appreciate your assistance. You'll be compensated generously."

Perorate nodded slightly and said nothing. By then Ashura had given up on beating at the barrier.

* * *

_Sluice. Sluice. Sluice._

Every stroke of the oars was a struggle, but Garrick _thought_ he was finally getting a feel for it. At least he was going in a straight line now, and the current of the Chionthar wasn't overwhelming him anymore.

And the city really _did_ seem to be looming closer.

He glanced over his shoulder and took in the sight of it: water lapping beneath the pillars and the quays, and above that the sheer wall of the bay curving like a great maw (a metaphor about the docks being jagged teeth came to mind, but he quashed that). The bay was capped with thick mists, the dim amber of streetlamps struggling to pierce the gloom. Beyond that sickly light hung great, dark shapes that hinted at the rest of the city.

Garrick suppressed a shiver. What was he _thinking_ , approaching this mass of shadow, fog, and ghostly light? This was stupid. So, _so_ stupid!

Towers watched the river. Guards patrolled the docks. And the city was probably more on edge than ever – readying for war. And here he was, a lone man in a rowboat, coasting in to dock in the dead of night. Surely they'd think him a smuggler or spy.

Earlier, when this hadn't seemed like the most idiotic plan in the world, Garrick had assumed that the invisibility potion would give him an advantage sneaking in. Of course _that_ had worn off a _long_ time ago. (Had he really thought he would be able to find a rowboat on the river, steal it, and then navigate his way across and into the bay in a matter of minutes?)

Of course, pondering it all now, it seemed that _not_ being invisible was likely for the best. A tiny boat just rowing itself up to a pier? Now _that_ would be sure to draw suspicion.

Stupid Past-Tense-Garrick. And it had all seemed like such a clever idea at the time. Since the seer had said that he would be doomed if he walked the Wyrm's Crossing again, why not just go around the bridge? Why not bypass destiny? Yet now he found himself wondering if the gods would reward or punish his hubris/audacity. Trying to get around a prophesy on sheer technicality? Could that actually work?

Hopefully the fervent prayers he had been sending Tymora through the whole boat ride would help, at least.

This time of night –and with winter setting in and the trade season long gone– the harbor was quiet and free of traffic. It was easy enough to spot an empty pier, and with a little angling the rowboat approached and drifted in. Garrick managed to catch ahold of the quay, half-standing ( _Whew! Careful not to rock the boat!_ ), and gripping tight to keep things steady. There was a coil of rope nearby, and with a little stretching he caught a strand and started to tie the mooring, feeling almost like a true sailor. _Almost._

Then a little cough sounded from above.

Garrick gave a start and looked up, though the sight was predictable enough: on the stone stairway that led down from the harbor-wall stood an armored man, dressed in the red and white of the Flaming Fist. He was leaning down to get a better a look at Garrick and his boat, a lantern in one hand a spear in the other. "Out for some late-night fishing?" the guardsman asked.

There wasn't even a net, barrel, or pole in the boat. A phase came to Garrick's mind – one you often hear from gruff, law-abiding, salt-of-the-earth types: _'If you've got nothing to hide, you've got nothing to worry about.'_ Utter bullshit, of course, but still he took that attitude to heart, like he would a motivation in a play, and put on his most sheepish smile.

"Nah," he replied to the watchman. "Was out for a visit. Courting a fisherman's daughter." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Guess I lost track of time."

The guard snickered, walking down the staircase with his lamp held high. "That so? Which fisherman?"

"Urm. Jebadoh's the name of the girl's father." It was actually the name of a man they had once bought trail rations from on the ride along the Chionthar. Garrick had no idea if the man had daughters, sons, both, or neither. But would some guard really know everyone in the region? "Lovely girl," he went on, "with big brown eyes. She kept saying 'Oh please, can we talk a little longer?' and next thing I knew…" He glanced down at his boat, then back up to the watchman. "Oh," he added, as if realizing something, then raised his hands. "You can search me, of course."

A moment passed, the watchman giving Garrick a long, appraising look. "Nah," he eventually said. "It's okay, lad. What's your name, by the by?"

"Nebbin Gye." It was just the first thing that popped into Garrick's head, probably half-remembered from some old book. ( _Hoo boy. Hope this guy hasn't read the same stories._ )

But it seemed the guardsman hadn't. "Alright Nebbin. If I were you, I'd keep my river-crossings to daylight hours from now on. Alright?"

Garrick chuckled. "Of course. Sorry sir." The guard turned and marched away, Garrick climbed up onto the dock, and it seemed that was that. _Whew._ Garrick felt rather pleased with himself as he mounted the steps, pushing through the fog and onto the lamplit street.

Then he realized that he had absolutely no idea where to go.

For a long time Garrick stood on the slick flagstones, surveying the dockside road; taking in the looming shadows and the drifting fog. He adjusted his cloak, hugging it close. _Damp, and damn chilly tonight_.

It was funny: he had always fancied himself a free young fellow, out roaming the big wide world. Up and down the Coast he'd gone, from Mithral Hall to Nashkel, and all sorts of points between. But really, thinking on it, hadn't he been following one troupe or another the whole while?

He supposed that he could just try to _find_ Ash. But she really had told him, plainly, to leave. He even kind of understood why (from time to time he'd still find himself rubbing that scar along his stomach).

' _Where should I go then?'_ he had joked once. She'd shrugged, like usual. _'Back to Berdusk maybe? Go tell your story.'_

Pretty tempting, actually. Almost dying several times, and then being _told_ by a seer that you're doomed…well…they say it's good to know when to leave the card table. But the nagging thing was that the story wasn't over! There was some sort of great upheaval coming to this city, one way or another, and Garrick just _had_ to see it for himself. You can't just walk away when the climax is right _there!_

Determined in that, at least, Garrick chose a random direction and started down the street. _So, I'm here to witness history, right? At least from a distance._ Then the next step would be finding the best vantage point.

He found it just a block or so down, when jittery pipe-and-drum music caught his ear and the tantalizing smell of frying fish struck his nose. There was a dockside tavern up ahead: some place called _Jopalin's_ , with a sturdy stone façade and wide, inviting windows.

A tavern! That would be the perfect place to catch up on the latest gossip. Not to mention that planning his future would be easier on a full stomach.

Inside, the place was crowded and thick with pipe smoke, dock workers packed in around most of the tables. At the far end of the taproom a woman in colorful garb was playing a pipe and tabor; a fluttery little tune that had the nearby patrons rocking from side to side.

Garrick followed his nose over to the bar, where a stocky woman in an apron doled out drinks. Jopalin, presumably. The delicious smell that had drawn him in emanated from the kitchen doors beyond, and when he got the barkeep's attention Garrick immediately ordered some of the battered fish, along with an ale. He resolved to just sip his drink, of course, as he was here for information, and with that in mind he leaned against the bar and tried to keep his ears open.

As with most taverns in the region, there was a section of wall beyond the bar devoted to the posting of proclamations, advertisements, playbills, posters, and broadsheets. Garrick had to lean further in and crane his head a bit to the see the full message board, and (predictably) the name **_'Sarevok Anchev'_** caught his eye, there in big bold letters. As usual, that name seemed to be everywhere.

_'_ _Now that Eltan has fallen, who will defend us? Lord Anchev…'_

_'_ _Young Lord Anchev Seeks Vengeance…'_

_'_ _Sarevok Anchev steps up with crucial supplies for…'_

And on and on, along with several illustrations: bald head, bullish neck, goatee and all. The largest image hung right next to a wanted poster that-

_Oh my!_ Garrick's eyes widened, and he fought the urge to squeak. The likeness was rather shoddy (they had gotten her scowl all wrong), but the name _'Ashura Adrian of Candlekeep'_ hung unmistakable beneath the charcoal drawing. _'Wanted for the murders of Rieltar Anchev and Brunos Costak.'_ There were some words about accomplices too, but nothing too detailed beyond: _'May be in the company of a female drow.'_

_Well then._ At least Tamoko had warned them, and really, this was to be expected after Candlekeep, wasn't it? Hopefully the others had slipped in quietly and gone to ground.

A hand gripped Garrick's shoulder, and now instead of a squeak he bit back a scream, tensing, jerking, and awkwardly fumbling for his rapier all at once. Images of bounty hunters danced in his head as he swiveled towards the stranger and scrambled to think of the best spell to shout first (his sword would be useless in this elbow-to-elbow crowd).

The young man who had gripped him was someone Garrick had never seen before, with hay-blonde hair and a round, boyish face that hovered rather close. The lad was dressed in a silken, powder-blue shirt, under a darker vest and nondescript a gray cloak. His teeth were pearly and perfect, and he showed them off with a bright smile.

"You're an easy man to find," the stranger said, finally letting go of Garrick and leaning back against the bar. He pinched some of the fabric of his cloak and held it up. "Should try wearing one of these. A _Cloak of Nondetection._ Comes in awful handy." Glancing over at the posters on the wall, the stranger pursed his lips and then added: "Suppose your friends should have worn some, too. I've been following you all, you see, and-"

"B-back off!" Garrick managed to stammer, shifting his hand to the little brass horn at his belt. The blasting spell! That would be best here, even if the crowd might not agree. "I'm warning you. I'll…"

The lad with the straw-hair looked briefly confused, glanced down at the horn, and then his hands shot up, empty and open. "Oh! No. No, no, no. You've got the wrong idea. I'm here to help. Or to…well, I'd been hoping…urm…"

"Who are you?" Garrick interrupted, still tense as a spring.

"Ah. Yeah. I'm Karsa. Moruene's apprentice." The stranger offered his hand, but Garrick just stared at it. "Sorry." Karsa's hand fell back to his side. "I'm new to this cloak-and-dagger stuff. Might need some pointers."

"Well, first off, you might not want to say 'cloak-and-dagger' in a crowded tavern."

"Oh. True! True!" Karsa glanced at his feet. "In any case, I was hoping to meet with you folks when you got into town. Think we might have a mutual friend who needs rescuing. But, of course, now it looks like there's a lot more rescuing to be done!" A nervous laugh. "Guess that's what adventuring is all about though. You'll know what to do."

Garrick cocked his head. "Urm. What?"

"Oh? You don't know?" Karsa gave the posters another significant look. "They dragged your friends to the fortress of the Flaming Fist about an hour ago. You're um…the only free one now."

Opening his mouth at that, Garrick found he had nothing to say, shut it, and then opened it again. _Probably should have expected this_. Of course the _last_ thing he had expected tonight was to meet –and then be offered 'help' from– someone even more clueless than he was.

* * *

A shove sent Ashura crashing to the floor, her face turning and scraping the stones as chains rattled and clashed. They had spared few options when they had restrained her: wrists manacled, ankles fettered, with both restraints linked by a chain that kept her thoroughly hobbled. In contrast, her companions had merely been bound by the wrists, allowing them to walk through the city while she was pushed and dragged. 'Shame we don't have a muzzle too,' one of the soldiers had joked.

'Why?' her companion had asked. 'She doesn't talk.'

'Mark my words: she'll bite if you let her.'

True. She would have. They hadn't given her the chance though, never missing an opportunity to trip and bash with their spears. By the time her cheek hit the flagstones it was already swollen and sore.

Scraping chafed hands and knees against the floor, Ashura managed to lift her chin and look up. Had to at least give her captors a hateful glare. She recognized this room: a wide stone chamber with many doors and a stairway spiraling up in one corner. This was the place they had first met Commander Dosan. The room where the false Scar had been uncovered and slain.

Flaming Fists in their uniform chainmail lined the walls, spears in hand and crossbows slung at their backs. Ashura's companions had been arrayed beside her and forced to kneel. Edwin, Viconia, and Xan had all been gagged, their weapons and enchanted jewelry removed, but Imoen's mouth was free. Seemed they hadn't realized that she was a mage.

Before them stood Commander Dosan, out in front of his soldiers at the center of the room, and a big, burly man towered beside him. The stranger was so tall that he probably had a few inches on Minsc, and he was dressed in spare work clothes, with a longsword sheathed at his hip. His head was covered by a black hood, which, along with the outfit, made him look exactly like an executioner out of a story book.

_Perhaps_ he was only there to intimidate. Both men were certainly glaring as hard as they could, silent for the moment.

"By right we get a trial first, don't we?" Imoen asked, piercing that silence and speaking up fast. "As citizens here and…well heck! We've even done a number of services for the Gate! We were following Duke Elthan's orders when-"

" **I** am the judge here!" Commander Dosan barked, cutting her off. "As the senior most officer present." He swiveled, eyes sweeping over his soldiers. "Correct?"

"Correct, sir!" they shouted, not quite in unison.

He turned back to Imoen. "And I have seen quite enough evidence to find you guilty of the murders of Rieltar Anchev and Brunos Costak. As I recall, it was a redheaded girl who was seen personally strangling Brunos." His eyes shifted to Ashura. "Never mind the matter of resisting arrest."

Imoen just shook her head. "This is all a mistake! It's Sarevok Anchev that done killed them! Think about it! He's the one with every reason to cut out the folks above him and now-"

"Young lord Anchev is _not_ the one traveling with a drow, a red wizard of Thay, and an agent of Evereska," Angelo interrupted again. "Quite the band of assassins that you've built."

"Xan's here to _save_ the region. What with Evereska being part of it and all! Look, we've been investigating this whole mess. For a long, long time. And we can untangle it all for you if you'll _just_ listen to our story." Imoen gave the commander a hopeful smile. "I think we're on the same team here."

The commander pondered her a moment. Eventually he spoke again, his voice lower than before. "And _I_ think you still don't understand. You haven't gotten it through your _thick_ little head just who is in command here." He gestured towards the hooded man. "We need to set an example. Kill her."

At that the executioner stepped forward and reached for his sword. "Gladly."

Chains rattled, and Ashura was on her feet before anything else registered. More clinking and a sharp sting in her knees followed as the guards yanked her back and forced her down. The butt of a spear struck her ribs.

The rest happened in an instant: the masked man drew his sword, it glinted in the torchlight, and then it plunged into Imoen's chest. Imoen's eyes bulged wide in shock, her jaw went slack, then her lower lip trembled and she let out a feeble moan. The executioner yanked his blade free, drawing several inches of red, dripping steel, and then Imoen dropped, limp as a doll, her forehead cracking against the floor. Streams of blood began to run through the clefts in the stonework, and gradually it became a flood, pooling out beneath her.

"A shame that bard isn't here," the executioner said as he sheathed his blade. There was something oddly familiar about his voice. "I was looking forward to making an example of him."

_'_ _A prison floor, and your lifeblood spilled upon it. An example to the others.'_ Garrick. It was meant to be Garrick. But instead...instead…

Ashura slackened. Her chains were impossibly heavy, and she barely registered the crushing grip of her guards. Her throat constricted, dry as a desert, and behind her a pained cry escaped Xan's gag: a moan that tapered out into a whimper.

The guards around them shifted a bit, their mail and leathers clinking and creaking.

"That should show you all _exactly_ how little you are worth to us," Commander Dosan stated. "Beyond your confessions, I expect silence."

Ashura certainly had nothing to say. As sure as the furnace-fire had risen up in her guts, on the bridge, it was all guttered out now. All burnt through, leaving just a tightness and a chill. And that pool of blood. Spreading. Spreading.

Numb and heavy, she just let herself be dragged, her head turning back as she was frog-marched out of the room. For as long as she could she craned her neck, eyes on her sister's still form. She did not struggle when the guards marched them all down to the lower levels of the fortress, nor when they shoved them into a darkened chamber, nor when they stripped her of everything save her chains, nor when they separated her from her companions and dragged her, naked, hobbled, and stumbling, into a brightly lit chamber.

The walls here were painted a stark white, lit by bright glowlamps, and a great wooden table dominated the room, marred and nicked and stained. A chair of rivet-studded oak sat at one end of that table, bolted into the floor, and it was onto that cold, hard seat that the guards flung her. One she had settled they went about adjusted her chains, securing them to the chair. The configuration left enough room for her to move her arms, but not so much slack that she could rise.

She slunk back, and for several minutes the guards just stood there and Ashura watched the blank walls. There was no way to find a comfortable positon in the chair, and that was clearly by design: the hard iron studs poked against your back, your ass, and your legs no matter how you tried to shift.

Eventually Angelo Dosan and his tall companion swung into view, looming at the other side of the table. With a wave the commander dismissed the guards, and as they marched out he turned to his prisoner.

"We've motions to go through," he stated, mater-of-fact. "Formalities. Confessions to be signed, attesting to your numerous crimes, before we bring you to the gallows. I want plenty of details on how the Iltarch of Amn put you up to your little scheme." He glanced over at the hooded man. "My associate will tell you exactly what to write down."

"There's something we need to wring out of her first," the big grunted.

Again that voice. And those muscles and- _oh._ Ashura recognized him now, hood or no, and with that realization a great many things clicked into place.

_'_ _Sarevok has agents among the Flaming Fist, and at the highest level.'_ Imoen would have never been able to convince Dosan of their innocence. He already knew, and simply didn't care.

"The location of the boy," the big man went on. "I want him here. He owes me a _great_ debt of pain."

Commander Dosan's eyes had mostly been fixed on Ashura's chest, but now they lifted, and he gave her a knowing grin. "I'm sure you're familiar with my associate here." He gestured, and the big man slipped off his hood. Beneath was sandy grey hair and a wide, weathered face.

As Ashura recalled, Taurgosz Khosann had always had a sort of jovial, easy-going look to him. That was all gone now. His sharp little eyes were ready to bore holes into her forehead.

"Tenhammer here requested the honor of turning the screws on your personally," Commander Dosan explained. "In exchange for his men bolstering the Iron Throne's ranks. Seems he holds a bit of a grudge after what you've done." Turning to Khousann, the commander took on a businesslike tone. "Leave enough of her intact to march to the gallows and hang. But make sure that she cannot lift a blade. I don't want her to be a threat."

Taurgosz Khosann nodded. "That was always more Tazok's area of expertise. But I watched well enough." Again he leveled a glare on Ashura.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she supposed that this was all meant as some sort of terror-tactic; an attempt to break her with fear, here in the interrogation chamber, before the instruments even came out. Yet, looking up into Khosann's ice-chip eyes, Ashura simply felt…nothing. Just heavy and tired. Imoen was gone. Everyone was gone. All the rage and resistance had been spent and spilled out, now pooling on the stone floor somewhere upstairs.

_Let's just get this over with._

* * *

Shadows.

Shadows were dragging her; gnarled silhouettes made visible by the mist-blue light of this ghostly world. One had her ankles. One had her wrists. The floor of the forest passed just beneath her bowed back, and occasionally a twig or rock would bump her and she'd shift, wincing. Above her hung a thick canopy, broken only once or twice by cracks of starlight. Wind beat the branches – a constant, nervous rustle.

Imoen remembered this forest. She had fought grasping branches and treacherous roots that Mirtul night, earlier this year. The night of the firebursts. The night of ogres seen for the first time. The night she had glimpsed that big, horned, demon-of-a-man. The night Gorion had died.

From time to time, the shadows glanced back at her and their faces swam. Their eyes were made of swamp-light; their only clear feature. Mostly they just looked ahead: out towards whatever fate they were dragging her to. Each motion jerked and jostled her, sending spikes of white-hot pain through her chest.

Where _were_ they taking her anyway? Down to the dark? The dirt nap?

_No._ A familiar voice reverberated in her head. A branch high above her rustled, and then the raven fluttered down, perching on the craggy shoulder of the leading shadow. The shadow ignored its passenger, and the bird cocked its head and gave Imoen a curious look. Its eyes were black, rounded mirrors. Imoen could see her own distorted features there.

_You are meant for greater things. What are you doing, sulking down here with the shadows?_

_Su-sulking?_ she muttered back at the bird. She felt so heavy; just a lump to be dragged. Breathing out words was too much of a struggle; she could only _think_ at the pesky creature. _I got stabbed in the dang chest!_

_Stabbed in the right breast,_ the voice of the raven corrected. _The fool missed your heart. He was never much of a swordsman. And you were never meant to be slain by the casual thrust of a mortal blade, though you will succumb if you allow it._

They had carried her out into the field now. She remembered this place, with all the rings of stone. Cairns, she figured. The shadows hauled her over to an especially large slab and dropped her there, with a jolt of agony that filled her head, and for a long time there was nothing but pain.

Perhaps she had passed out, since there was the sensation of coming to sometime later. She was blinking back tears, panting hard.

The raven was gone now, and the wind whipped through the branches all around the clearing. The forest was shaking, as if giants lingered on the edges of the field, ready to come stomping out. Imoen remembered the ogres, and Gorion blasting them with fire. And that big, horned man, sauntering past the flames as if they were nothing.

Then, as if on cue, the swaying tree trunks parted and **He** entered the clearing for real, his greatsword resting on his shoulder and his eyes burning with Hell's own fire. Imoen craned her neck to get a better look, and winced at that. _Hurts! Hurts! Hurts!_

The horned man stomped forward, closer than he had ever been to Imoen in the waking world. He seemed to be speaking, though the voice that came out was not that of Koveras. Of Sarevok Anchev. Instead it was the voice of the Raven.

_I brought you here for a purpose, child. To this place._ The armored figure stopped short of the slab, and though its face was cast in shadow, Imoen sensed a smile. _Did you know that once, my priests were required to kill a mortal every tenday? Any thinking being would do. A culling of the herd. Some of the priests would aim for higher numbers, seeking to please me. But you have_ far _surpassed even them. How many do you think you have slain? And how often?_ The creature laughed.

( _It's Bhaal isn't it? This is Bhaal!_ )

_Certainly more than once a week_ , the creature added.

_I…I've fought to survive_ , Imoen countered. _Sure. What's your point, ya stupid bird?_

There was another rumble of laughter, and then the armored shadow began to walk towards her once again. _Survival is as good a motivation as any. It all serves me. And you, my child, have served me well. It is why I have brought you to this place. For a great and terrible sacrifice._

_No. No! Yer not sacrificing me!_ As her mind screamed the words, the ghostly glow that lit the forest brightened. The world went blue-white, and, shifting on the slab (the sacrificial altar…), Imoen realized that the glow was coming from her.

More laughter sounded, the great horned monster looming right above her now, and Imoen raised her hands against it, palms open. A defensive action, but then on instinct she brought her hands over and down. Her palms touched her damp and bloody chest –the source of her pain– and a numbing cold seeped into her skin and into her heart. It shivered through her veins.

The pain abated, as did the glow, and the world starting to grow dark all around her. Imoen felt as if she were sinking, and as she faded, the voice of Raven echoed down. _Oh, my child. My favored daughter. Did you really think that I would sacrifice_ you _? No. You shall be my instrument._

And then the voice faded completely, and Imoen sank into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like bringing in original characters (especially since Baldur's Gate has a massive cast of one dimensional characters as is, and they can be repurposed for just about anything) but I suppose Karsa here fills the role that Harper agents like Delthyr would normally play.
> 
> The idea that Death tends to help heroes survive (through improbable events) so that they can send him more souls in the long-run comes from Fritz Leiber's Ffard and the Grey Mouser stories.
> 
> And what happened with Imoen was partly inspired by events in kaispan's fic Truth or Tale (hope that's not spoiling anything), and partly by the fact that every time I've played through Baldur's Gate and gotten to the point where I say something snarky to Angelo and he orders one of the party members executed it ends up being Imoen.


	84. The Rescue Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Shar-Teel does her thing

_"_ _You idiots! You can't make them_ all _death matches! We'd run out of gladiators within a few weeks!"_ –Rathet Amshir, Master of the Arena at Bezantur

* * *

"Oh, what a romantic notion," the wood elf mused as he sauntered down the street, head held high and unperturbed by the grey sky above. "To rescue three fair maidens from a dungeon! Hm. Or four, if you count Xan." The afternoon was damp and bitter, with a chill in the air. The clouds wept steady, icy mist.

Garrick didn't reply, not particularly wanting to think about the maidens in the dungeon, or what they might be going through. The stories you often hear about how soldiers treat captive women…

He shook his head, looking up to find the broad façade of the Elfsong Tavern fast approaching. Quite a crowd was gathered at the yawning entrance of the stable-house; bodies pressed together –murmuring, laughing, and back-smacking.

"And this is where we'll find the uh…muscle?" Karsa, the young apprentice, asked. He walked a few steps behind the elf and the bard. "For the rescue?"

Coran looked back and gave a hearty nod. "Oh aye. Aye! Quite an impressive set of muscles too. I had heard that she was having one of her…er…contests this afternoon. Glad we haven't missed the show."

The folks gathered beneath the overhang of the stables looked to be the sort you often saw in the Elfsong: rough-and-tumble travelers (off-season caravaners and sailors if you're feeling generous, bandits and pirates if you're not), a smattering of local, shady merchants (due-paying members of Ravenscar's guild), and their protection (local thugs), along with brightly dressed women standing about here and there (prostitutes.) They all seemed to be leaning into the interior of the barn, cheering and laughing. Seemed the show was well on its way.

Garrick approached, weaving his way into the crowd. Inside, the light was dim and hazed by pipe smoke; the cloying smell of the stuff mixing with the scent of horse manure and human sweat.

A dry, wooden crack and a meaty thump sounded from somewhere up ahead, followed by a roar from the ring of spectators. Colorful slips of parchment rustled everywhere, held up in clutched fists. Betting slips, Garrick realized. He dodged and dipped his way through, getting close enough to spot the broad circle of hay bales that had been laid out in the middle of the barn. Looked to be an improvised fighting ring, overseen by Lady Alyth Elendara herself, along with several of her bouncers.

The scene reminded Garrick a bit of the Prisoner's Carnival and underground arenas of Luskan, which Silke had always enjoyed. Of course the gladiators _there_ had had no choice. Why Shar-Teel would _willingly_ dive into this sort of thing –even if it was just one of her duels to 'second blood'– was beyond him.

Yet there she stood. Or crouched, rather, in the center of the hay-ring, a longsword out in one hand and…an odd device attached to her other arm? It looked like some sort of cup-shaped gauntlet, with a six-inch knife-blade protruding from the end.

Garrick's jaw dropped. _'Let's just hack the hand off and replace it with a blade.'_ Had she…had she actually done it?

Shar-Teel was dressed in the sort of riveted leathers you tend to see on poor conscripts or village militias, her face smeared with purple woad. Her opponent, a large man with flaming red hair and a braided beard, was dressed about the same –armed with a single-bladed battleax and a wooden shield. The man had been knocked back against the bales, blood seeping from a great rend in his armor, but now he shot to his feet, laughing. He was bleeding from many shallow cuts, in fact, and there was little left of his shield. By comparison Shar-Teel looked untouched beyond some blood trickling from her nose.

She was panting hard, however. And drenched in sweat.

Laughing like a madman, the big guy with the ax lunged in at Shar-Teel. She twisted and rolled out of the way, retaliating, but the man was fast on his feet. Steel clanged and wood rattled. The ax swept over Shar-Teel's head; a narrow duck. Then a shield-bash sent her stumbling back.

Garrick was jostled from all sides, the crowd roaring in his ears. A chant had gone up. "Gre-tek! Gre-tek!" Apparently that was the axman's name. And most of the crowd was betting on him.

The ax sailed down and rebounded off of Shar-Teel's gauntlet with a painful clang. "You tire!" the big man boomed. "When I send you to the Abyss, give Wilf my regards!"

"I kicked his sorry ass once-" Shar-Teel began, but Gretek didn't give her time to taunt. His axe swung down, and Shar-Teel caught it by crossing both her blades, then a kick to her gut sent her stumbling back a few steps.

Shar-Teel roared and retaliated, leaning into a mighty hack, but Gretak caught her blade with his shield. The edge bit deep into the wood, seemingly stuck there, and Gretek took advantage, yanking back hard and extending his opponent's arm. His axe sliced downward, intent on giving Shar-Teel a second severed limb, but she let go of her sword and hopped out of the way.

With a laugh Gretek flung his shield-arm back, the arm slipping out of the straps and sending the battered thing –along with Shar-Teel's sword– flying behind him; out of reach. Garrick gaped at that, and over the roar of the crowd he thought he heard Shar-Teel mutter a low: "Oh shit." Then she was grunting in pain as Gretek aimed a two-handed swing at her head, barely repulsed by the bladed gauntlet.

The blow seemed to turn Shar-Teel fully around, and when the ax came chopping down again she dove like a swimmer, the blade sweeping down between her splayed legs just as she flew away. She landed in a scramble, on her elbows and knees, and raced further from her foe. A few paces, and then she reached the wall of hay, leaning hard against it.

_Beshaba's breath!_ This was _not_ a duel to second blood! What had Shar-Teel gotten herself into? Briefly, Garrick glanced over to Coran, but the bewildered look on the elf's face mirrored his own. What should they do?

Gretek stomped towards his kneeling opponent, his ax in both hands and raised towards the ceiling, howling in triumph all the way.

Straw rustled, Shar-Teel shifted a bit, and then with a grunt and a sudden burst of strength she _whirled_ around and shot to her feet all at once, holding the massive bale of hay out before her, her blade-hand stuck into it like the prong of a pitchfork and her other hand gripping one of the binding-strings. The ax struck, but all it did was send up a plume of straw.

Shar-Teel tilted away, then she _slammed_ the interposed hay-bale against the big man with all her strength, leaning into the blow. Gretek overbalanced, and they both went tumbling down in a crinkly explosion of hay.

Hay, and flailing limbs. Hay and kicking legs. Hay and flashing steel. Wads of the stuff flew everywhere, and within the space of a few breaths some of the golden-yellow straw was splattered with blood.

With a triumphant roar Shar-Teel shot to her feet, and the audience gasped. Her bladed gauntlet –and her entire arm– were drenched in blood, and more and more red was spilling out onto the dirt and soaking into the hay. Seemed she had struck someplace vital on the fallen man. Or several places.

Shar-Teel's feet were pressed down onto her opponent's arms, pinning him to floor and keeping him from raising the ax while he shook and shuddered. As the struggling grew weaker, she bent down over his face, hocked dramatically, and then spat.

Many of the gasps from the audience turned into jeers, boos, and angry shouts. Alyth was grinning though. Seemed clear who she had bet on. Quite a few of the folks that Garrick recognized from Ravenscar's guild looked pleased too, and some began to demand payment.

The protests didn't let up, however, and the loudest came from a halfling man who had leapt up on top of one of the hay bales, shouting a string of curses. As Shar-Teel bent to retrieve her sword the halfling dropped fully into the ring, drawing a dagger from his belt and approaching. "You big, sneering bitch!" he howled, pointing with his blade.

Shar-Teel spun to face him, straightening. Her sword dangled casually at her side. "That I am," she agreed. She waved her dripping gauntlet at the hin man. "You want a poke too, runt?"

Three other men had followed the halfling into the ring. One was armored, carrying a short blade, and the other two were plainly dressed, though they wore the telltale pouches and rune-lined bracelets you often see on spellcasters.

"This your plan?!" the halfling shouted over the roar of the crowd. "To pick us Maulers off one by one?"

Shar-Teel snorted. "Maulers? The fuck do I care about your little gang? That Wilf fellow of yours was the one eager to die over a bumped sword. Then carrot-top over there," she gestured towards the corpse in the hay pile, "had to pull his bullshit about honor and vengeance. But if you want to keep going, feel free to line up-"

"I've a better idea!" the hin man shouted with a poke of his dagger. "How 'bout we show you the _full_ wrath of the Maulers right here!" The men behind him made menacing gestures as well, one reaching for his spellpouch.

_Oh boy._ Garrick steeled himself, drawing a deep breath.

There were shouts of protest from the audience, and the bounces on either side of Alyth reached for their swords. "I won't abide a fight here-" Alyth began, but the halfling cut her off.

"You've fights all the time! What's one more? This time on _our_ terms."

A deep breath, and then Garrick shouldered his way past the last line of spectators and leapt into the ring. The moment he landed he found that Coran was already at his side. The elf wore his usual, wide grin, a small dagger twirling in each hand. They both strode to Shar-Teel's side.

"Really now?" Coran chided. "Picking on this poor, defenseless woman here?" Shar-Teel was giving them both an incredulous look, too surprised to take immediate offence.

"And have you no sense for the sanctity of the arena?!" Garrick put in. "Ganging up, four-on-one? I'm surprised Lord Tempus hasn't struck you down already!" The armored guy looked like he might be a follower of the Foehammer. Was worth a try.

But the four angry men just glared. Eventually the halfling puffed up. "You think you can stop us from taking this bitch's head?"

That was certainly a question Garrick was asking himself. His hand hovered over his brass horn. Best to aim for one of the spell-slingers first.

"I've no idea," Coran replied. "But I'm honor bound, at all times, to defend a lady in distress." He was laying the drama on thick. Would have made Numbul proud.

Four against three. Of course, there was a way to even the odds a bit. Garrick looked to the crowd, trying to catch Karsa's eye. The young mage was out there, but he had this baffled look on his face, just watching the show unfold. Garrick tried to give him a _'Come on!'_ signal with his eyes and a tilt of his head, but Karsa just kept staring.

All around them the crowd was murmuring. There was laughter too. Then papers began to rustle. People were starting to make bets.

"…five to one for the Maulers, far as I'm…"

"…Pish! That crazy wench could take 'em all 'erself. People keep underestimating…"

"…mark me, that elf's got some tricks…"

"…what's that little boy going to do? Juggle stuff at 'em…"

Frustrated, Garrick bored his eyes into Karsa hard, and gestured. The lad _finally_ seemed to catch on, giving him an open mouthed _'oh-that's-what-you-mean!'_ look and starting to wriggle over the wall of hay.

"If you want my head, come and get it!" Shar-Teel snarled.

"Oh we will!" The halfling crouched and tensed. "We wi-"

There was a metallic _ting_ , and a dagger flew over the halfling's head, burying itself in the throat of one of the spellcasters. The man had apparently just pulled out and pointed a small, glass shard (spell component…)

The mage's mouth moved to the form the words of a spell, blood seeped out instead, and then _all_ of the Hells seemed to break loose at once: Shar-Teel roared and charged, another one of Coran's throwing-knives flew, lights flashing from the fingertips of the second spell-slinger, Garrick's horn rose (seemingly of its own accord) to his lips as he belted out the sonic spell in a rush of instinct, the rafters and the roof of the stables shook, lights danced everywhere, and there were flashes of smoke, flashes of fire, spurts of blood…

* * *

A little while later their boots clomped, loud and steady, on the hardwood of the hall –Shar-Teel taking the loudest and surest steps as she strutted along behind Alyth. "Did you see how I had that halfling skewered up on my sword?" she asked the men filing in behind her. "Flailing his stubby arms around and waving like…like he was some sort of flag?! Ha!"

"I uh…I saw that," Garrick managed. "Yeah."

The proprietress of the Elfsong led them into a side room off the main hall. A long, wooden table filled most of the space, with a few cabinets and clay pots that sported striped snake-tongue plants lining the wall.

As the five of them entered Coran spoke up. "You know...just as chivalry demands leaping in to rescue a lady in distress, it _is_ customary for the rescued party to express _some_ gratitude."

Shar-Teel whirled on him. "You're treading dangerous ground, little man. If you're asking for a blowjob or something I promise I'll bite your dick clean off and-"

"No, no, no," Coran protested, his palms raised and his grin never faltering. "Nothing of the sort. I was just mentioning that, on occasion, people have been known to use the words 'thank' and 'you' in the same sentence. Sometimes they even string those words together."

"Hmph. Would have done fine without you."

Lady Alyth rolled her eyes at that. She had slipped to the other side of the meeting room table, using a tiny key to open one of the cabinets. Now she faced the four of them. "That's technically true," she pointed out. "My guards and Ravenscar's people would have intervened, if you dashing young men hadn't jumped in first. Can't have the winner of a guild-sanctioned street fight get lynched by sore losers."

"Oh," was all Garrick could think to say to that.

"We're grateful that you _did_ jump in, though. And took the risk. Doubly grateful that the Maulers are all dead. You've no idea how much trouble they've been causing." She gave Shar-Teel a significant look. "And _you_ should show some gratitude too."

"Bah!" Shar-Teel hooked a thumb in Coran's direction. "You give praise to a petty little man like that, and next thing you know he swells up, puffs out his chest, and starts strutting around like he _owns_ you or something."

"Oh," Coran retorted, "I assure you, my dear Shar-Teel, that I would be strutting around no matter what you did."

"I'd spit on your manhood, but the shrimpy little thing doesn't deserve the attention."

"You seemed to appreciate it enough the other night-"

Shar-Teel pointed her bladed arm at him. "Don't you **dare** bring that up here!"

Coran started to add something, stopped himself, and withdrew. "Best not to prove your point about 'puffed up little men,' I suppose," he eventually said. "And I wouldn't want to end up like that poor halfling. (I prefer to _do_ the skewering.)"

"You're a funny man. That's why I'm going to kill you last." She glared at him, and he returned an affable smile.

_Did I miss something? Did they..?_ Garrick shook his head. _Is this some sort of…flirting?_

Alyth had been digging through the cabinet, filling up a pouch with clinking coins. Now she turned and faced Shar-Teel. "Here." The pouch flew across the table and Shar-Teel caught it. "More reasons to be grateful to your white knights," the half-elf added. "The betting on that last-minute fight of yours earned a little extra."

"Good then." Shar-Teel gave Garrick a pointed look, and then made her voice go nasal. " _Thank you, good sirs._ " It was a pretty good impression, Garrick had to admit.

"Nice job out there, Shar-Teel," Lady Alyth added as she locked up her little gold stash (as Garrick understood it, Alyth's underground 'banking' operation consisted of hundreds of these little stashes spread all over the place. Thieves might occasionally find and manage the locks on one or two, but there was no central vault to rob.) "Would prefer if you kept it to brawls and duels to first blood, though. For a moment I thought we were about to lose one of our prize attractions."

"Not my fault those pathetic little men _demanded_ death matches," Shar-Teel retorted.

"But you were happy to oblige. At the risk of your life."

"Of course."

Shaking her head, Alyth walked around them and out of the room, leaving Shar-Teel with her 'saviors.'

"So," Shar-Teel addressed them. "The fuck are you three doing here, anyway?"

Coran laughed. "We were hoping to put that death wish of yours towards something useful."

"Yeah," Garrick added. "We need your help. Our friends: Ashura, Imoen, Xan, and Viconia. They've been captured…" He glanced around. Seemed secure enough. "By the Flaming Fist. Locked up in their dungeons. And the criers have been saying that they'll be hanged tomorrow morning."

Eyes narrow, Shar-Teel leaned back against the table. Eventually she let out one of her loud, barking laughs. "Ha!"

Not promising.

"Guess that's what you get for traveling with a drow," the warrior-woman added. "Renegade or not, who'd know the difference? Funny though: I figured I'd see the gallows before most of 'em."

"It's a bit more complicated than…"

"Like I care 'bout the long story." Shar-Teel made a dismissive gesture. Then she leaned back further, rubbing her chin. "Hm. The Flaming Fist fort itself, huh?"

"Yeah."

She flashed them a wicked smile. "Interesting. It'll cost you though."

"After all we've been through-"

"Oh spare me." Shar-Teel made a fist and moved it in front of her eye: a 'boo-hoo' gesture. Then she raised her bladed gauntlet, which was still a bit smeared with blood, and tapped it. "Already got my hand chopped once for that tough little twat of yours. Remember? And you see this?"

"Uh. Yeah. So you really…replaced your hand with a blade?"

Shar-Teel looked incredulous, and then she reeled back, laughing. "Oh? Hahaha!" Once she had recovered she started to twist the gauntlet. It unscrewed and popped off the bracer that it had been locked into, revealing the limp, curled fingers of her hand. Looked a bit like a dead squid. "Useless for gripping things. _And_ it was my wiping hand. So that was frustrating. But of course I kept the damn thing! A powerful priest can restore an injury like this. For the right price."

She then held up the blade-attachment. "Saw this thing in a blacksmith's. Apparently it's a popular sort of weapon in the Shining Lands. They call it a… _patta_? Something like that. So I had the smith custom-fit it for me. Cost a bit, but nothing compared to a restoration. That's _quite_ a big pile of gold. Might take a lot of duels." She sneered. "Or maybe just one, crazy, suicide mission into the Flaming Fist's fortress? And I know you're worth it. After all you gathered from Firewine, Ulcaster, that pirate stash, and all those bounties? You're a wealthy little fellow, huh Garrick?"

Quite a lot of gold and gems. Yeah. All lost behind the walls of Candlekeep. But Shar-Teel didn't know that.

Garrick nodded, putting on his most affable smile. "Sure. Just name your price."

"Ha! I will. We're taking the secret tunnels in, right?"

"Secret tunnels?"

"There are some," Karsa interjected. "But how do you know..?"

"They're how I got out of the place the first time," Shar-Teel replied with a shrug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning that the next chapter contains depictions of torture.


	85. Breaking Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Imoen is terrifying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning for depictions of torture

_"_ _We thought we had the Exile trapped and cornered in this warded maze, yet somehow she has turned this place into her hunting ground. I am the only one left."_ –last journal entry of Calisiall Quistel, Greycloak of Evereska

* * *

"Good. Let's go over it one more time." Taurgosz Khosann's voice was cold and clinical, his eyes level with Ashura's as they glinted through the pinholes of his hood.

"I d-don't know for sha-sure," Ashura repeated, her voice raw and her breath hitched. She had to steel herself a moment before she could force the words out clearly. "But my…guess is that he's on the road to Berdusk. Traveling on…on foot. Alone."

Taurgosz nodded. "And the pirate wench?"

"Dead. In some cave on the coast. South of Candlekeep. There was a map but…think we left it on her corpse."

"Yes. Tazok's map. He intended to send an expedition, but it seems she beat us to it. A shame that she's out of our reach now. But at least we'll have the boy soon. My men are combing the roads as we speak." His head turned, and he gave a nod to one of his assistants, who rotated the crank at the side of the rack.

Ashura's bonds slackened, relief flowing through her aching limbs. Just a slight easing, of course. New pains flared up as every little motion against the wood irritated the raw, scorched spots were the blazing iron had left its mark. An involuntary tremble made it even worse. After that she tried to remain very, very still.

At first Ashura had tried to lie about Garrick, of course, but that had only bought unnecessary pain. Later, after a long poke of the branding iron, Khosann had calmly explained that Viconia had already told them everything she could. Before the implements had even been brought out, if he was to be believed.

"And the moment they bring that boy of yours in," Khosann continued, "I'm going to place him right there, and have him gelded in front of you. I'll wager _that_ will earn a reaction. And mark my word: if they take you to the gallows before we catch that lover of yours, the first thing I'll do before we go to work on him is show him your dangling corpse. Either way, we _will_ have our revenge."

One of the other men grunted. There were two others, acting as assistants (and keeping Khosann from ever having to dirty his own hands. Thinking on it, he had yet to lay a hand or implement upon her.) They wore no insignias, and from their manner, and the way that Khosann addressed them, it was apparent that they were fellow Black Talons. At times it seemed that this show was mostly for them.

"I am not Tazok," Khosann went on. "I don't take pleasure in this. But you burned and drowned my men. You took everything from me. The scales must be balanced. Vengeance must be exacted. If we were in opposite positions you would do the same."

A pause. He seemed to be looking for a reaction, so Ashura gave him one. She forced her chin up to meet his gaze, then shook her head.

"Oh? You would not? Fancy yourself some sort of noble hero?"

Again, Ashura shook her head. "Hardly," she rasped. "If our positions were reversed, I'd kill you. The instant I could. Orders or no."

Khosann snorted.

"Never leave an enemy alive. Won't make that mistake again."

"A tempting notion. But we've a ways to go before tomorrow morning. And it's good to see that you still have some spirit left to break."

* * *

The shadows had returned. They hovered over Imoen, and this time they spoke, whispering and hissing in the tongue of devils. That's what it sounded like at first, at least. Then the hissing resolved, word by word, into something that she recognized.

Chondathan. Human words. Male voices. Baldurian accents, too.

"This one doesn't stink, at least."

"Yeah. Only been here a day." A chuckle. "And check this out. They did a piss-poor job of searching her, eh?" Something nuzzled the cuff of her trousers. "Look at the stitching there? That writing too. These are enchanted boots!" As the shadows spoke they began to look less and less like specters and more and more like men in red and white tabards. Flaming Fist soldiers.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"We slip 'em out to Halbazzer's before we dump this poor lass on the Helmites? They'll sell for a pretty copper."

"My thinking exactly, brother. Just need some place inconspicuous to hide the boots and…" His words faltered and he let out a gasp, suddenly looming over Imoen's face. "Torm's balls! I think she's still breathing!"

"Shit," the other shadow/soldier muttered. "The poor girl. They missed the boots _and_ bungled the execution too?"

"She must be in a lot of pain, with a wound like that. Should we…should we put her out of her misery?"

"Might be for the best. Damn. Damn! Poor kid."

But there was no misery. Imoen's back was a little stiff from lying here on the stone slab, but that was all. Her eyes shot open and the soldier above her rocked back with a start. One of his hands reached for the dagger at his belt, while the other made some sort of placating gesture. "Wowa! Careful miss." The dagger slipped out of its sheath.

Imoen was in no mood to be placated. Her thumbs pressed together, her fingers fanned out, and then she _shoved_ her hands right in front of the soldier's face and barked out the words of a spell. White flames flared up, arcing from her fingertips and blasting the man in the face. He screamed, stumbling backwards and clutching his cheeks, his hair on fire.

The other soldier rushed in to help his companion, pulling out his sword, but Imoen swiveled on the slab and drove the last spurts of flame in his direction. He was a little too far away for her to set _his_ face on fire too, but the spell forced him to hop back, embers flaring up on his tabard. That gave Imoen enough of an opening to leap up off the slab, get close to man with the burnt face, and snatch up the dagger he had dropped.

Up the dagger went, then the blade plunged into the side of the burning man's neck. Carotid artery. Easy enough to find. There was an eruption of blood, and the man went down, clutching and choking.

By then Imoen had raced over to the other soldier, faked one way, wriggled to the opposite side, and then she stabbed, striking roughly the same spot. Shock and sudden blood-loss turned the man's knees to jelly, and he fell just like his partner.

They were in some sort of store room, with several other empty slabs and rows of bottles lining the shelves. A stripped down mortuary, probably just where they stashed dead prisoners before shipping them off to one priesthood or another for proper cleaning and burial.

"What in the Hells are you idiots doing?" a woman shouted from beyond the room's closed door. Footsteps echoed out in the hall.

Beside the man with the burnt face lay a crossbow. He had a quiver at his hip too. Frantic-quick, Imoen bent down and fished out a bolt, loading and cranking.

The door flew open with a bang, and a Flaming Fist woman stomped in, sword in hand. The annoyance in her eyes instantly turned to shock as Imoen raised the crossbow.

_Click. Thrump. Thud._ The woman's left eye disappeared, replaced by the rattling feathers of the bolt. Her knees wobbled and then she dropped like a rock. There were more guards running, out in the hall. Alarms were behind shouted. No time to think.

* * *

They had left her hanging in the dark for gods knew how long. Hours? Minutes? There was no time here. There was only the bite of the manacles at Ashura's wrists, the quivering of her overstretched arms, and the tightness of her aching shoulders. Somewhere beneath her dangling toes she could _sense_ flagstones, just out of reach.

Every muscle shook from the strain of her own weight, each shiver rocked and shifted her at the end of the chain, and each shift sent more reverberations of agony through her exhausted arms and shoulders. The rawness of her ruined fingertips barely registered next to that.

There was nothing to see down here save blackness, no sound save her hitched breaths and the rattle of the chains; no day, no night, no time, and no room to for coherent thought. Nothing but stretched, exhausted, exquisite pain.

And then, faintly, there came a fluttering sound. Then scratching.

Ashura forced her eyes open and raised her chin. The pitch black of the cell had lifted, almost imperceivably, a faint blue-white drifting in from somewhere to replace it. It backlit the Raven, which was perched upon one of the empty shackling-boards on the opposite wall.

The bird cocked its head one way, then the other, examining Ashura. _What are you doing, sulking down here in the shadows?_

* * *

Slipping out of line with the doorway, Imoen felt through her pockets. They had taken her obvious weapons, but not the random bric-a-brac. Without a gaudy robe like Edwin's or Xan's it probably hadn't occurred to the bastards that she might be a mage. Well, egg on their face for underestimating her!

Nimble fingers snatched up a hunk of dried sap with some poor sod's eyelash incased inside, and Imoen made the reagent dance between her fingers, singing out the spell-words that made her fade from sight. A split-second later a trio of Fists burst into the chamber, crossbows out and loaded.

Behind them a young man in a smart red and white uniform rushed in, hands in the air and obviously itching to run them through some arcane gestures. One of the Fist warmages. The crossbow-wielders formed a line in front of him, eyes scanning the room.

"Whoever did this is still here," the warmage announced. "Be ready." He drew a breath. " _Viathus-_ "

_Ack!_ She knew that spell! Silent as she could go –and hastened by her enchanted boots– Imoen danced forward. She wanted to just slip past the little phalanx, but the spellcaster stood squarely in the doorway. Holding her breath, she zipped by the guards and found herself standing face to face with the mage.

" _-kret matok!_ " The crescendo of the spell brought a bright flash of white with it, forcing Imoen to wink into visibility. Of course that happened _right_ as her dagger came down, gripped in both hands, and plunged into the warmage's chest. Earlier, Imoen had been saved from a quick, decisive death when that big executioner-guy's sword had missed her heart. This fellow wasn't so lucky.

As the warmage dropped, his three companions whirled, clutching their crossbows and aiming point-blank, but before anyone could think to pull the trigger a blast of scintillating colors struck all three pairs of eyes. The dancing lights overwhelmed their senses, and the guards swooned in unison, dropping to the floor with groans and the clink of mail.

Turning, Imoen _started_ to take the first step towards the door, but then she paused, a foot raised in the air. The stunning spell would only last a moment or two, and the guards would be up right-quick, giving chase and aiming those crossbows at her backside.

_Ugh. Welp: them or me._ Imoen put her foot down, gripped the hilt of her dripping dagger tight, and stepped over to the first unconscious soldier. Then she went to work.

* * *

_Sulking?_ Ashura leveled a glare at the Raven, peering through her own tangled hair. The bird had raised its wings and started to preen itself. _Sulking?!_

_Yes_ , the creature's voice answered. The same voice from her dreams.

Their little conversation was interrupted by a creak from the door beyond. The chamber flooded with torchlight, Ashura squinted, and the Raven seemed to fade a bit, growing translucent.

The stocky shadow that stood in the doorframe was quite real, however. Taurgosz Khosann's henchmen shuffled into the room, their leader holding back. Seemed he was speaking with someone in the hallway.

_You sulk down here,_ the Raven continued, whispering from its perch. Spectral now, it faded in and out of sight. _Did you not come to this place for vengeance?_

_I was dragged here._

_Dragged. Yes. By that which hums through your blood. To the city of your enemy. To this fortress of his newly-acquired soldiers. For a great and terrible sacrifice._

The torturer's assistants took their places and waited. As usual they were dressed in black padded jackets, armed with short-blades and truncheons. A moment later Khosann ducked in through the door and approached them, a torch in hand. He used it to light a few of the other torches that hung about the cell, red flames flickering and drowning out the Raven's ghost-pale light. It was enough to illuminate the other three prisoners at the far side of the room, who were shackled and eerily silent.

A crank turned, and Ashura suddenly came crashing to the floor, falling in a heap. The chain followed, battering her back and pooling against her, cold and heavy against her bare skin. It was a moment of shock and pain, followed by overwhelming relief in her arms and shoulders.

Then fresh pains set in, a breath or two later. Spikes of agony at her raw, denailed fingertips. A horrible chafing too, at her back and her thighs, where the burns were the worst. She winched and whimpered. Tried to hold still. _Just breathe_. Long, ragged, desperate breaths.

Taurgosz's massive boots were close to her face. His voice was a low rumble. "Looks rather broken. We've another night to go, though." One of the Black Talons gripped her shoulder and hauled her up, his other hand taking the chain and pulling it in front. They would drag her to the other chamber, she knew. The one with the brazier and the iron rods. The rack. The lash and the whipping post. The _implements._

"You took everything from me," Taurgosz repeated, taunting. "Let's see how little of you we can leave for them to hang."

_Everything_ _…_ _taken…_

_Not everything._ The voice of the Raven came to her from a distance.

She glared up —beyond the guard who was pulling her chain taut— over to the perch. There was just a hint of black feathers and ghostly light, then they faded.

_You still have your gifts._

The torchlight seemed to dim, and all at once Ashura's blurred vision was illuminated by something new — not pale blue-white, but a rich red glow. The light emanated from the three men before her: her guard, the other, smaller man, and Khosann most of all. They seemed to be afire; flaming-red and pulsing.

_Thrum. Thrum. Thrum._

She could see it. Hear it thumping in her ears. The pulse of life. The flow of blood. The stores of fat and rolling breaths and glowing _vitality_ of her three tormentors. They were all well-fed, well-rested — hale and strong. Especially Khosann.

After what had been done to her hands it was near impossible to grip anything. It was easy enough, however, for Ashura to open her palms and straighten up, glaring at the big man across the room from her. At his strength. His vitality. His _life._

_'_ _You took everything from me…'_

Blue light flared into being on Ashura's raw, bloody palms, then streaked out across the span between them, pushing beneath the startled man's skin.

_Thrum. Thrum. Thrum._ The big man stumbled back.

She felt it –that pulse– and she pulled, dragged his vitality through the umbilical-strands of ghostlight. It surged into her palms and ran through her fingers. Then, with a sudden, aching shiver, the pain diminished and her wounds began to knit.

_Thrum. Thrum. Thru-_

A blur of motion and rattling chainmail loomed before her, and then Ashura's head snapped to the side. The blue light winked out and red fire bloomed before her eyes. The guard at her chain. He had punched her.

She stumbled and snarled. Her eyes snapped open and the world was still red.

The guard was rolling the chain around his fist now. Ashura pulled at it, backing a step, stretching the links out between her wrists, and between her and the man. He was going to punch again, this time with steel.

Another snarl, and she dug her fingernails (that had not been there a few seconds ago…) into her palms, balling her fists and pulling them apart. Strength surged up from somewhere below (the Inferno…) and filled her limbs. A grating clink echoed off the walls as a link of chain between her manacles shattered, the sound accompanied by a furious howl.

The man's eyes went wide, and he teetered there, frozen. Ashura lunged before he could act, catching him by the throat, clenching and roaring in his face. Beneath her palms she felt his hammering pulse. Felt the roaring blood, the rushing adrenaline, the churning bile and the surging _fear._

Blue ghostfire flared up where her hands gripped, burning cold, and once again she drew and she _drank._ The guardsman kicked, thrashed, and Ashura had this vague sense of something metallic buffeting her arm. Didn't matter. She held on, and then she _lifted_ the man's feet off the floor and tightened her grip, squeezing the life from him and _feeling_ that life seep into her hands and arms and chest and veins.

The chain fell from the guardsman's hand. His struggling stopped and his skin grew sallow and dry as parchment, his eyes receding in their dark and hollow sockets. Loose locks of hair dropped from his head, the water leaving him as he shriveled and the chamber echoed with his feeble, crackling scream.

It all lasted but an instant, and then the man's open, red-rimmed eyes rolled back, his head lolled to the side as if there were no bones in his neck, and now Ashura found herself holding a desiccated husk. All that had been his was hers now: strength filled her limbs close to bursting, and every ache and stab was gone.

Whole and invigorated. _Ha!_ For some reason she couldn't help but laugh —roar with laughter, in fact— as she let go of the husk and it crumpled to the floor.

Taurgosz was leaning back against the far wall, still clutching at his chest where the sapping blast had struck him, but his assistant was gathering his wits and drawing his sword.

_Sword!_ Ashura bent and swiped the shortblade free from the belt of the man she had just killed. The other Black Talon started forward now, but so did she, laughing and pointing with her sword — clad only in broken manacles and her own dried blood. Her foot crunched against the fallen husk as she stomped across it and _lunged_ , swinging first.

Her slash batted the Black Talon's sword aside. He tried to adjust and swipe, but she slipped around him, found herself at his side, and stabbed, piercing between ribs. His breath hitched and his next swing was feeble; slow enough for her to catch his wrist, yank her own blade out, and stab again, up and through. A shudder, and then he went limp. A shake of her squeezing hand, and she made the sword drop from his, tossing him aside to snatch it up from the floor; laughing - _laughing_ \- _LAUGHING_ all the while!

_There! Armed and ready!_ With a short blade in each hand, she faced Khosann. He had recovered now, and was holding up a sword of his own ( _…_ _the sword that had killed Imoen…_ ) his lips pressed together tight. He opened his mouth, perhaps to say something, and she advanced on him, the chamber still echoing with her laughter.

For a man so bulky, Taurgosz Khossan could move _fast_. He spun and sprinted the few steps it took to get to the door, ducked down to wriggle through, and then used all of his strength to yank and slam the door shut behind him.

Ashura surged close behind, howling as her leading blade stabbed the reinforced wood. Her other sword clattered to the floor and then her fingers were prying beneath the doorjamb, struggling to get a hold.

_Click._ Too late. The bolt was in place.

Another howl. She tried to yank, but couldn't really get a good grip between the crack. She hammered with her sword-pommel, but that just made a dull noise. Her pommel slammed again and again, chiseling off bits of wood. _Useless!_ Turning, she tried to shoulder the door. It held firm. The strength that still flowed through her was enough to break chains and batter aside a man's sword, but this damn door…

_Beshaba's breath!  
_

Frantic movement caught her eye, over on the other side of the room. One of the torches that Khosann had lit illuminated the other three prisoners, and Viconia and Edwin were shaking their shackled hands, waving for her attention. Their chains shook and their mouths opened and closed, though there was no sound thanks to some spell laid across that side of the chamber.

The other prisoners had been spared most of what Ashura had been put through. After their interrogations and a few lashings (a show to test Ashura's resolve, or how much she cared for them) they had been left shackled to the wall, clad in ragged brown smocks and mostly forgotten.

Ashura shot the door one more glare, then turned from it, stomping over to the fallen Black Talons. One of them —the husk— had been carrying a ring with several keys, and after a little searching and probing she found a key that unlocked Viconia's shackles, then Edwin's, then Xan's. The priestess reacted immediately, stumbling out of the zone of silence and starting to intone a healing prayer for herself.

Similarly, Edwin wobbled forward until he could speak, then began to cast a spell of his own, surrounding himself with ethereal strands that swiftly knit together, resolving into conjured red robes and boots. Gold-threaded with black trim, the robes even more resplendent than his usual clothes. Smoothing out the sleeves, he shot Ashura a glare. "Following you was a colossal mistake," he growled. "A grave miscalculation."

Xan just leaned against the wall, arms crossed and hugging himself, staring at nothing and not bothering to leave the silent space. Looked like he'd be useless.

"They'll be coming," Ashura noted, turning to ponder the remains of the guards. Armor would be good, but would that arming jacket fit? And the boots-

Before she could really start to pick through the corpses the sound of footsteps echoed in from the hall. Lots of them. She turned towards the door.

"Wizard," Viconia commanded, hands out and ready. "Summon something that can see in the dark. If you can."

"If I _can_?" Edwin bristled.

At the door there was scuffling and commotion. Ashura shifted over to the wall, out of the line that crossbow bolts might come flying in. She readied her blades.

* * *

With a deep and sudden intake of breath, Imoen stopped her scampering and clung to the surface of the ceiling. There were voices up ahead, accompanied by quick footsteps. She hugged the stonework and the bracing beam. Was a damn low ceiling, in this tiny hall. The larger rooms would-

But then the soldiers appeared, and there was nothing to do but cling, hold her breath, and trust her ceiling-climbing spell not to wink out too soon. The armored figures raced ahead, two-by-two and six in total, heads down and all business. They were there and gone in an instant.

_Whew!_ She shuffled a hand forward, stuck it to ceiling and made to continue, but more footsteps and shouts gave her pause. Two more Fists appeared at the head of the hall, both women, one lightly armored in leathers and carrying a crossbow, along with lots of odds and ends hanging from her belt.

The other woman wore heavy banded mail and carried a spear, and unfortunately her chin was pointed _up_ a bit. Seemed she had been barking orders, and was ready to storm into the next room and bark some more. That all ended when her eyes alighted on Imoen and widened considerably. _Shit!_

Crossbow-lady followed her companion's gaze, and then her hand was shooting to the quiver at her back, reaching for a bolt to lock in.

The pilfered crossbow Imoen had slung over her back was already loaded, however. Pushing off, she swung till she was upside down, blood rushing to her head and the butt of the bow against her shoulder. _Thrump._ The bolt took Crossbow-Lady in the chest, and her own weapon clattered to the floor.

Imoen wasted no time swiping a bolt out of her own quiver, a couple extras slipping out and falling to the floor thanks to the whole upside-down thing ( _whoops!_ ), but Spear-Lady wasn't wasting time 'neither. She rushed forward and jabbed, the ceiling low enough for her to aim the spear at Imoen's dangling face.

A frantic act of will, and Imoen dropped before the speartip could skewer her, rotating as she fell so her feet smacked the floor and her legs curled up to take the fall. Her back to her opponent ( _not good!_ ) she scamper/scuttled backward, getting well under the reach of the spear ( _always good!_ ), still clutching her crossbow with one hand and the bolt with the other.

Bump! She brushed against the startled guardswoman, then Imoen swung back and stabbed with the bolt, hoping to catch a leg. The bolt jabbed into the unarmored back of the woman's knee, eliciting a howl of pain. The big woman dropped, Imoen whirled out of the way to make sure that she didn't get squished or battered by a spear-haft, and then she shot to her feet.

Spear-Lady had taken one knee (what with the bolt in it and all), and before she could recover Imoen slipped all the way around her, drawing her stolen dagger. The Fists were generally well-armored, but she had yet to meet one here who wore a gorget.

One throat-slitting later, Imoen race/scrambled back up the wall, then on to the ceiling, and then forward as fast as she could. She needed an actual _hiding_ place!

She found it, sort of, a few halls and side-chambers later, stumbling into a room that was _huge_ , tall, and had rafters wide enough for her to easily perch upon. A little quite climbing and she was up there, catching her breath.

From her perch, up above the cavernous intersection, she waited and watched. Little clumps of soldiers came hustling through, running from hall to hall in something like orderly panic. They moved with poise and discipline, but some looked like they were not so sure where they were actually supposed to go.

_Hm. Maybe_ _'_ _fake it 'till you make it' applies to the soldier business as much as any other?_ Imoen certainly felt the same way. _Where to go? Where to go?_ For the moment she was hidden, but she'd need to move before the climbing spell wore off. She had a _vague_ notion of which direction the exit to the fortress's courtyard was. And her friends were in the…dungeons? Right? Which passage led down there?

Down below her, several Fist soldiers were talking. Two seemed to be guarding a reinforced door, facing a little line of four others. "Nope," one of the guards barked. "You need a requisition order. No exceptions."

"Come on," the tall, lanky guy in front the guard protested. "There's some sort of revenant on the loose in the west wing that's killed at least _six_ people, and thanks to bloody Dilos and one of his last minute 'special patrols' we're only half-kitted! We've got less than a quiver of bolts between us! Not a single healing draught either."

_Whoa. They think I_ _'_ _m an undead monster?_

The shorter soldier was unimpressed. "You've got swords and mail don't you? Go put 'em to use."

"You don't outrank-"

"Here I do! Storage is _my_ department. When it comes to this door and these vaults, I'm Lord Almighty Ao!" He waved a hand at the barred door behind him. "No one passes without a requisition order."

With a roll of his eyes and a lot of grumbling the lanky man turned on his heel and gestured for the other three to follow him. They marched off and down the western hall.

"I thought the trouble was in the dungeons?" the other guard, a bearded fellow posted beside Mr. Requisition Order, muttered.

_So they_ _'_ _re guarding store rooms, huh?_ She wondered…

"Who knows? Probably some miscommunication."

Quiet as she could, Imoen started to crawl and shimmy from one rafter to the next, then the next.

"I mean," the other guard was saying, "if we're really under attack from multiple sides-"

"Absolutely not," Mr. Requisition Order insisted. "You can't go thinking like that. They'd loot this place dry in seconds if we just opened up the door. And half of it would 'mysteriously disappear' and end up in old Ravenscar's stores."

Imoen found a perch directly above the pair, squatting with her feet braced on a rafter, the loaded crossbow cradled in her arms. The bearded guy was wearing a halfhelm, but Mr. Requisition Order wasn't. They both had crossbows near their feet, propped up against a short wooden bench.

"Nope," the requisition officer went on, sitting down. "We've got to stand firm. Especially with guys like Samuel. Know for a fact that he trades stuff under the table. 'Dilos' special patrols' my ass."

"You don't _know_ that. Or you'd 'ev reported it." The other guard sat down as well.

A grumble. "Well, he seems like the type."

"We're the only thing holding back chaos and a full free-for-all, huh?"

Mr. Requisitions didn't reply to the obvious sarcasm; just crossed his arms at his chest and stared forward. It had grown quiet in this wing of the fortress. Seemed everyone was elsewhere, searching for the 'revenant.' Or perhaps securing the dungeons. Imoen frowned at the thought of that.

All clear and quiet. There wouldn't be a better time. Imoen adjusted the crossbow so that it was hanging right over the requisitions officer. Silent-silent-silent, she let out a careful breath, and once her lungs were empty and her hands were still, she tickled the trigger.

_Thrum_ and _thunk_! The bolt took a completely vertical path and nearly disappeared —save the bright red fletching— into the top of the man's balding head.

Imoen didn't wait around to watch their reaction. Instead she tossed her crossbow hard as she could, sending it falling and clattering in front of the two men. The momentary distraction held the second guard's eyes long enough to keep him from looking up as she dropped from the rafters, aiming her feet at his shoulders and whipping her dagger out as she fell. Her feet struck her target and she bent like a gargoyle, grabbing the soldier's helmet for purchase and letting momentum carry her other hand —the one holding the dagger— down. It connected with something soft.

A wobble back, a stumble forward, and then the guard plunged, face first, to the flagstones.

_Oof!_ Impact. She rolled off the fallen man and bounded to her feet, gripping a wet dagger in a warm hand. The man she'd toppled twitched a bit.

The guard with the feathered bolt lodged in his crown had slumped and slipped off the bench, and as Imoen approached him he dropped completely. She bent and searched his belt, quick-quick-quick, lest some other party of soldiers come rushing in, and came up with a wardstone and ring of keys. The third key that she tried unlocked the reinforced door, and with a little effort she heaved it open and slipped into the storage area, closing and locking it behind her.

There were several branching chambers beyond, each behind a barred door that _hopefully_ corresponded to a key on Mr. Requisition's ring. Each room was well-organized, and they were handily labeled with little wooden placards. Imoen passed an apothecary stacked floor to ceiling with neatly lined bottles ( _Hmm. Some invisibility potions would be handy right about now_ _…_ ) and another room full of crates, but a sign that read _Contraband and Seizures_ caught her eye above all else. The sign, and a _very_ distinct shade of purple beyond the bars.

_Here we go!_

It took some fumbling with the keyring, but eventually the door opened up. Rows and rows of shelves greeted her, some lined with empty crates and others stacked high with goods. And sure enough: Xan's purple outer-robes poked out at the top of one of those crates. Had to stand on her tiptoes to get to it, but the contents spilled out: the rest of Xan's garments, along with a hoard of enchanted jewelry that she recognized and three spellbooks, her own included. _Woohoo!_

There were weapons lined up on the same shelf that she also recognized. Her hands were instantly drawn to the darkwood bow with the abstract whorls carved along the limbs: the trusty enchanted weapon she had bought at Thunderhammer's ages ago, and which had served her through thick and thin ever since. Better still: her quiver lay nearby, half-way stuffed with enchanted arrows. Yellow and green fletching: arrows that would pierce cleaner than any normal steel could, or splatter gobs of acid on impact.

_Oh!_ And near her quiver the Fists had laid out an enchanted dagger, still resting in its black buckskin sheath. The dagger that she had picked up off the corpse of Montaron —that old, dead Zhent assassin— all those long months ago: keen and sturdy, with an edge that never needed tending.

_'_ _Now the game is on!'_ It was a phrase Fuller had often used when someone in the training yard had taken a rough hit, gotten mad, and started fighting with real and fierce intent. It was also something her dad used to say when the stakes got upped at cards. And, of course, Winthrop always cleaned Fuller out.

There were other weapons as well, and piled up armor too. Varscona, along with Ashura's shorter, offhand blade (which had also once belonged to Montaron.) Next to that lay Ashura's battered chainmail, enchanted gloves, arrow-dodging boots, Viconia's leathers, and beyond all that were rows and rows of other useful things.

There were rolls of spell-scrolls, and (better still!) wands, along with bundles of arrows that could fill Imeon's quiver out with some nice surprises (fire and lightning, of course, but better yet: a few were marked with symbols of dispelling!)

She'd never be able to lug most of this stuff, but at least she could slip the most useful of them into her belt while she was trying to figure out where to sneak to next. The dungeons, where her friends were kept? And to get there-

And then something else entirely, tucked away on a high shelf that she'd have to climb up to, caught Imoen's eye. It was a roundish, deflated sack that would maybe be the size of a small melon if it were ever full; spun from fine, powder-blue cloth, with a red tasseled tie-rope at the top. Elven lettering ran down the side, woven in glittering thread-of-gold, and if she was reading it right those letters spoke about _dimensions._ About space, and the _folding_ thereof.

Imoen's eyes widened, and she scrambled to get to the sack.

Oh, it was on. On, _on_ , _ON_!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again: apologies for the giant, sudden wall of words. Figured I had edited enough and it was about time to put the rest of this fic up here.


	86. To Rule the Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Shar-Teel is actually happy to tell her backstory, but nobody asks because they’re afraid they’ll get stabbed, and —in the end— Tiax rules.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is looong, a lot happens, and things explode. I thought about breaking it up at various places, but eh. Let's have a big, climactic chapter instead! Here goes!

_"_ _Some fools claim that war is good for business. To them I say: what good is trade to the dead?"_ -Revered Father Adhan El Imater

* * *

They stopped at a section of the city's old wall, in a back alley lined with grass. No street or window lights reached this narrow space; only the light of the hand-lantern that Shar-Teel carried. "This is where the tunnel opens up," she announced, tapping the crack between two stones. "Think the mechanism's hidden in this groove."

"And you open it by..?" Garrick prompted.

"You're not _supposed_ to open it from the outside, idiot! It's a damned escape tunnel."

"Then why are we even here?"

"Well, I don't know how to open it, but I know it _can_ be opened. The crazy gnome that showed me the way out of the dungeons was there because he'd broken _in._ "

Coran laughed. "He broke into the Flaming Fist's own prison? That sounds like a tale. Was he rescuing damsels too?"

"Just bugshit crazy," Shar-Teel explained. "He insisted that he was a monster. That he had murdered thirty-three children on the streets of the city, and that he had to be locked up. Thing was: there weren't actually any dead kids. The Fist figured he was delusional." She snorted. "That, or he was pulling about the weirdest scam you can think of to get a roof over your head. So they kicked him out.

"The first time, at least. But the morning after they found the gnome right back in his cell. Kicked 'em out again, and he just reappeared. So they gave up and let 'em live there. It was the cell next to mine, and after a day or two of listening to gnomish bullshit and solving some of his stupid-ass math puzzles, he decided I was 'worthy,' unlocked my cell, and showed me the tunnel he had been using to get in and out. I just took the 'out' part and never looked back."

"What were you in for?" Garrick asked.

"You don't **ever** ask a woman that," Shar-Teel snarled, leveling one of her murderous glares. An awkward, silent beat or two passed, and then she abruptly laughed and smacked him on the arm. "Ha! The look on your face!" She shook head. "I was fifteen years old at the time. Just a runaway. My dad thought it best for me to cool my head in the cells for a tenday, before taking me home. Heh. Showed him." She turned to Karsa. "So? Can you open the door?"

The apprentice bit his lip. "I can lower the wards meant to keep intruders out. And the wards deeper inside the fort. But…this mechanism? No idea."

"Good thing we brought a thief."

Coran chuckled and stepped forward, pulling a couple of needle-like tools from his pocket. "Funny. Breaking into a place I've spent years trying to avoid." He knelt and probed with one of the needles.

And probed. And probed. And probed some more.

Gradually, the gallant, cheery look on the elf's face faded, the minutes dragging on. "This…there isn't really any sort of lock," he complained. "Or…much of a device to get to."

"Maybe it takes a crazy gnome to figure it out?" Shar-Teel suggested. "The one who's always preaching at the hangman's square was still awake and shouting when we passed through."

Coran scoffed. "There's never been a door in this fair city that I couldn't tease open." Another moment of useless poking went by. "Of course, it would be nice if there was some sort of…latch…or lock…or gear…or something…" He continued to search the wall.

* * *

"Useless _darthiir_! _Do_ something! Anything!"

Perhaps it was the drow's words –hissed right into his ear– that brought Xan back. Or perhaps it was the _absurd_ sight of a naked, filthy, blood-splattered Ashura –a scowl fixed on her face as she swept an armored man's feet out from under him and then followed through with a downward stab of her swords– that woke him from his fugue. Whatever the case, Xan suddenly found himself at the center of a hurricane of motion, the smell of blood, excrement, and sulfur hanging pungent in the air. They appeared to be in some sort of underground holding cell.

_Wait. Sulfur?_ A snarl drew his eyes over to a black and red-tinged beast that had just backed one of the Flaming Fist soldiers into a corner. The creature gave a long, low growl, accompanied by a blast of smoke and a sputtering flame.

Beyond the hellhound and its prey, just past the doorway, something massive seemed to be clomping down the hall. It let out a thunderous roar, waving an ax as it passed into view: an eight foot tall… _minotaur? What?_ The creature charged on, disappearing from sight.

Had he _completely_ lost his mind?

With a violent shake the hellhound sent the Fist soldier flying and then sliding across the room. Weaponless, the woman fumbled up onto her knees, only to find Ashura looming above her, left-hand blade tilted back. Then the sword shot forward.

A kneeling, helpless woman. A stab to the chest. It was too much. Xan went away again.

* * *

When he returned it was to _yet_ another shocking sight. The door to the dungeon cell was now closed, and the man and woman that Ashura had killed in rapid succession were now leaning against it, holding it shut with the strength of the undead. There were three other corpses helping to press the door closed.

The zombies were not the shocking thing, however. No, the shocking thing was the _ghost_ standing right in front Xan. A ghost with short, red, face-framing hair, one lock of it tied into a braid. The ghost's eyes were aqua-blue, her face was round, and there was a big, friendly smile plastered across it.

"Heya!" Imoen said. She glanced around. "To all'a y'all!" Between her hands she held some sort of bag, round and blue. "I come bearing gifts, and ya poor sods sure look like you can use 'em." With that she turned the bag upside down, and its contents began to spill out. Far, _far_ more contents than should have been able to fit: piles of clothing, armor, swords, wands, a crossbow, several quiver, at least two scroll cases, a belt lined with potion vials, a belt lined with sharpened throwing-rings, a golden warhammer, and a great many boots.

One of the swords was all-too familiar, with a moonstone in its pommel and gently curving hand-guards beneath the hilt. Imoen used her toe to point at the discarded moonblade. "Got quite a zap to ma fingers when I picked that thing up for you. So ya better put it to good use!"

Xan nodded, dimly, kneeling down to fish through the jewelry for his rings and circlet. Nearby, Ashura had already wriggled into her padded clothes and was beginning to strap on her armor as fast as she could. Viconia had tossed her rags aside and was dressing and armoring up as well. "There…there was a minotaur?" Xan found himself asking.

"Ha!" Imoen laughed. "Yup. An illusory one, at least. But it managed to scatter the guards enough for me to slip through to ya."

"How in the Abyss are you still alive?" Viconia asked, bluntly, adjusting her newly donned leathers.

"Would you believe that it was just a flesh wound?"

"No."

"Yeah. Well." Imoen turned towards Ashura. "So. Turns out that I'm a child of Bhaal, huh?"

Xan couldn't help but gasp.

"Yeah," Ashura muttered. "My father may have…mentioned that. In a letter he left with Tethtoril. In the Keep."

"Oh? Ya maybe should'a told me then, huh?!"

"Well, I couldn't just blurt it out…"

"Why not? I just did."

Ashura was giving the floor a long inspection. "You know the prophesies…"

Stomping over to her…sister?!..Imoen opened her arms wide. A fierce hug followed, and chainmail clinked. "Prophesies/shmothasies! I promise I won't murder you if you don't murder me."

"Of course. Never."

"Good. Now finish getting equipped. Before they batter the door down."

Another gasp, as Xan realized that soldiers were indeed beating upon the door, only held back by the raised dead. And he was still dressed in rags. Slipping them off, he reached down and fumbled through his robes, trying to remember the order the garments were meant to be donned before he could belt his sword on, along with the satchel that contained his spellbook.

Imoen had drifted in beside him, a golden wand in her hand. The weapon had a spiraling, curly design to it, implying flame. "Xan?" she asked.

He nodded. "Yes?"

"You going to be alright?"

"Absolutely not."

The undead had their backs pressed to the door now. One of the hinges had shattered.

"Thank you for asking, however."

"I love you, ya know."

He nodded, opened his mouth to reply, and then the rest of the hinges broke.

* * *

It was the Cloakwood mines all over again: armed and armored soldiers pouring out of every passageway, bristling with spears, shoving for elbowroom and purchase, and trying not to slip in the growing pools of blood. No time to think, just move-move-move; ducking and turning, slashing and stabbing, kicking and kneeing, using the covering darkness that Viconia kept summoning for all it was worth, along with Edwin's webs and the storms of fear and confusion that Xan kept flinging about.

The Cloakwood mines all over again. _Good_. Ashura had survived kicking that hornet's nest in, and she'd survive this one too.

Going low and dashing forward, she locked a sword-hilt with the haft of a Fist soldier's spear, shoving him back into one of the clouds of darkness. She followed him in, infravision flicking on and everything turning various tones of blue and red. The soldier's body language spoke of panic, and his spear flailed about blindly. Slipping in beside him, Ashura used her shorter blade to stab: up and through the unarmored armpit.

There was another soldier behind the first, also fumbling around in the darkness. He must have heard the scuffling, because he tried to shove a sword in Ashura's face, steel whistling by her cheek.

She went low, lunged quick as she could, and metal screeched as Varscona pierced between the man's banded plates. That sent him stumbling back, out of the cloud, twisting in a jittery dance that tore the sword from Ashura's fingers.

_Damn!_

She rushed to follow, stumbling out into the light. The man who had stolen Varscona (with his chest) had flopped over, groaning, but there were upright forms close by.

_Ting!_ The edge of a spear skipped across Ashura's armored shoulder. The spearwoman tried to stab again, but Ashura managed to snatch the haft with her free hand and yank as hard as she could, pulling the soldier belly-first onto her shortblade. She twisted her sword, the spearwoman went limp, and as she shouldered the dead weight aside a familiar, tickling sensation came to her.

She tried to whirl away. Too late.

A crossbow clicked and something heavy struck Ashura's chest, twisting her to the side and sending bits of chainmail clinking to the floor. The bolt fell away. Torn as it was, the armor had done its job.

The man who had shot her struggled to reload, backing up towards the wall. Ashura advanced, but before the bowman could lock the bolt in or she could overtake him they were interrupted by a click and a rumbling sound. The bowman turned his head, gawping at the wall as it slid aside and a figure emerged:

Shar-Teel, of all people, sauntered out of the passage, grinned at the man, and then she plunged the tip of some sort of bladed gauntlet right into the side of his neck. The man went down clutching and choking, and the warrior-woman stepped on by. She was wearing her usual scaled armor, a sword in her left hand and warpaint smeared across her face.

A round little gnome, with bushy brown eyebrows and a stringy beard, hastened into the hall just behind Shar-Teel. He was dressed in a feathered hat and a tarnished red coat, and the pair were flanked by a smirking Coran, a bashful Garrick (he gave Ashura an awkward little wave) and some young man Ashura had never seen before. The stranger had a look of utter horror on his face, gaping at the dead and dying guards.

"Uh…" was all Ashura could think to say. She glanced down the hall, but it seemed there were no more Fists standing upright, and her companions were working on finishing them off. Imoen and Viconia were both opening throats. Xan used his moonblade to stab. At the end of the hallway, where stairs led up and out of the underground dungeons, a wall of roaring flames that Edwin had conjured up blocked the way.

"What do you know," Shar-Teel said with a laugh. "We came all this way, and it looks like you didn't even need rescuing."

"Well, I appreciate the thought!" Imoen chirped.

Shar-Teel had stopped walking forward, but the gnome continued, hands in his pockets, head high, and seemingly oblivious to the carnage around him as he inspected the walls of the underground passage. Ashura recognized him from somewhere. _Oh yeah._ The mad preacher, from the square.

"A suitable enough dungeon," the gnome proclaimed. "Acceptable for interring any heretic who will not accept Tiax's rightful rule. Now we shall see if the rest of this fortress is suitable to Tiax's needs. Follow, slaves!"

They all stared at the gnome's back as he briskly clomped down the hall, nearing the conjured flames that blocked the stairs. "Um…" Garrick began. "We might ought to stick together, friend. If we're going to…to rule this castle and such."

The gnome ignored him, and the wall of fire sputtered and winked out shortly before Tiax reached it, as if parting before him (or because the spell had simply run its course), allowing him to ascend the stairs.

Garrick cringed, turning back to the group. "He demanded 'rightful rulership of the castle' for helping us with the secret door. Didn't think he'd just…saunter in and assume ownership of the place, though."

"Hm. Well, perhaps he will live long enough to distract the guards," Edwin muttered. "While we take our leave." He turned to the opening. "This is a secret tunnel? An _escape_ tunnel, perchance?"

Shar-Teel nodded, a big grin on her face, and Viconia wasted no time striding towards the opening. "Excellent then," the drow proclaimed. "I've had more than enough of this place."

The young stranger beside Garrick held up his hands. "Wait! We agreed to rescue Duke Eltan too!"

"Oh?" Edwin asked. " _We_ did? _We_ agreed to turn around and fight our way _through_ this entire fortress?"

"Well, I didn't realize there'd be a…" The stranger's eyes swept the corpses that lined the dungeon floor. "…a battle going on." He waved a piece of parchment. "I brought this scroll, you see! Though…it might not work on this many people…"

" _Pah_ ," Viconia hissed, stepping into the tunnel.

"I just have to lower the wards," the young man insisted. "Then Moruene can step in, and we can all get whisked out of here."

Xan was staring at the escape tunnel, his eyes wide and his shoulders beginning to quake. "The…the grand duke. Yes. Duty would require that we..."

"Of course!" Imoen agreed with a fierce nod. "Finish storming the castle! Rescue the duke. Stop the bad guys! Be big damn heroes!"

But when Xan turned back to the rows of cells his trembling grew worse. "I…I think…"

"No time ta think," Imoen insisted. "We probably have'em scattered now. _Haste_ us, Xan." She gave his shoulder a mighty squeeze. "Then we race and punch through with all we've got!" And with that she hefted her bow and started down the hallway, not giving anyone a chance to argue.

With as resolute a nod as he could manage, Xan's fingers fluttered and he cast the spell she had requested, a giddy ripple humming through everyone present. Then he drew his moonblade and fell in line behind Imoen, who had become a blur of pink and violet. Shar-Teel snorted and followed, as did Garrick after a shrug and an awkward smile shot Ashura's way, along with the stranger, who still held out his scroll.

Viconia and Edwin, however, just stood there in the open passageway. "Absolute foolishness," the red wizard muttered.

"Foolishness is getting separated" Ashura growled. "Where we're all easy pickings. Come on!" But the drow and the red wizard still stood there, glaring forward, while Coran hung at Ashura's side, looking back and waiting. "Or you can run off into the city as a pair of fugitives, with nothing to show for all this." With that she whirled, out of patience, and started for the stairs, though she glimpsed Viconia giving a nod and moving forward as she went.

Imoen and the rest were already gone, thanks to the haste spell. "You owe me a great deal," Edwin muttered. Fortunately, it seemed everyone had fallen in line.

_Un_ fortunately, by the time they mounted the stairs and climbed onto the ground level, the others were nowhere to be seen, and a line of Flaming Fist spearmen had just started to hustle through a doorway adjacent to theirs. With a clink the first soldier who spotted them pivoted and leveled his spear, his companions following in tight formation.

"Foolish, foolish, foolish," Edwin kept muttering, just behind her, his fingers beginning the gestures of a spell.

_Don_ _'_ _t get separated. Easy pickings. Ugh._ Good advice, but too late now.

* * *

For a long, drawn-out moment Sarevok held his blade high, suspended above the altar and the helpless man bound upon it. Part of the ritual. A pause before the chop.

The Sword of Chaos nearly brushed against the great arch of the inner dais, level with the granite skull that served as a keystone. The sacrifice, who lay on his back, arms locked against the altar's sides, had been begging for his life for a long time. Now all he could let out was a hoarse choke.

A pause. A breath. A chance for the sacrifice to see the blade coming. And then it fell.

Wallen's severed head struck the tiles with a clunk and a messy spray, a hiss rising up as streams of blood sizzled along the edge of the Sword of Chaos, dissolving. Stolen vitality surged through Sarevok's veins, golden fire dancing before his eyes. He stepped back, glancing down at the bloodstained altar and the colorful mosaics that decorated it and the dais, depicting devils as they feasted upon the tormented souls of mortals; watched over by the hulking, horned figure of the Ravager.

Near the foot of the altar lay the headless corpses of another man and a woman, their blood pooling to mingle with Wallen's in the grooves. No devils or gods feasted tonight, however, and no lights flared up in the sockets of the stone skulls that lined the temple, as they would have in the days of Bhaal. Tonight it was only Sarevok who drank.

Drank, and tied up loose ends. These three: Wallen, Dhanial, and Gregor, had been deserters from the Iron Throne, conspiring to run off together with everything they could carry.

"You are finished?" Tamoko asked, her voice even. She reclined against the foot of the great dais, her scrying mirror held out in her hands. Winski and Semaj waited beyond, the old man sitting cross-legged and the younger one thumbing through his spellbook: a mage's way of fidgeting.

"I suppose so." Sarevok propped his sword against his shoulder and strode down the steps.

"Angelo wishes to speak with you,' Tamoko stated plainly, handing over the mirror.

The Flaming Fist commander's visage hung there in the smoky glass, put-together as always, but there was tension there. "It's the prisoners," he whispered, quick as he could.

Sarevok's jaw clenched. "They've escaped?" It had been a mistake to-

But Angelo shook his head. "Think they're still right here, actually. Saw the moonblade, a moment ago, before we had to withdraw to the upper feast hall. Somehow the elf got _reacquainted_ with the damn sword. I think some sort of reinforcements snuck in, and they're _all_ fighting their way through the fortress. There's fires everywhere, and I've lost gods know how many men…"

"They are fighting _through_?

"Seems that-"

"Seeking to rescue Eltan, then. Interesting." Anger turned to cold contemplation. "It must be the Dragoness."

"Haven't spotted her, or any really powerful spells. More like a small army of spellcasters."

"Perhaps the apprentices. Still, this could be an opportunity." _Yes._ So many pieces —loose ends— in a single place at once. In the chaos of a battle.

Angelo huffed. "You _would_ see it that way."

"Of course. Try to ensure that your guests _do_ lift the wards on Eltan's suite. And try to stay alive, of course."

Angelo opened his mouth to reply, but Sarevok muttered an elven word, and the mirror rippled, its magic fading.

He glanced up. "Winski. We will need a portal prepared shortly." It was one of the reasons, beyond the obvious, that this hidden temple beneath the city made for an excellent base of operations. Thanks to the work of the cult that had once thrived here, the space between the material world and Gehenna had been worn thin. Rifts could be conjured, allowing quick and secret movement. Perfect for assassin-cultists, and perfect for Sarevok's current aims as well.

With another elven word Sarevok reactivated the mirror, and after a brief wait a feminine face swam into view, framed by long blond hair. The woman started to say something, but Sarevok cut her off, his voice all business. "Cythandria. Send your messenger to Kristine immediately. The time is now. Then I want you to contact our highborn friends."

"Not even a-" she began, but he interrupted.

"Now is the time to act. Swift and decisive." Again, he deactivated the mirror. They had only been planning to wait a day or two longer, in any case. Long enough for the remaining Black Talon forces to arrive, and for the public hanging to be done with.

Somehow, Sarevok had figured it would not be that simple. Not where his _family_ was involved. His little sister had set things in motion, and now it all came to seeing where they fell.

* * *

As it turned out, Moruene's apprentice had a pretty good idea about how to break into Grand Duke Eltan's chambers and rescue the old fellow. The scroll that the lad had been waving around contained a spell that cast a cloak of invisibility over everyone, the idea being to sneak the rescue party through the keep, into the central tower, and then all the way up to Eltan's suite.

It was a plan that _probably_ would have worked, _if_ the prisoners hadn't just turned the fortress into a battleground full of Flaming Fists on high alert. As is, they made it through one open foyer, up some stairs, and then into a hallway before one of the Fist warpriests ( _the Watchful Eye of Helm_ _indeed!_ ) had spotted them and everything had exploded in the usual manner.

There had been lots of literal explosions (of the incendiary sort), in fact, since Imoen had let loose with her pilfered wand before the soldiers had managed a volley, followed by a sizzling blast of electricity from the wand Garrick now wielded.

Now the halls and chambers of the fortress were blurring by right quick as they all charged through, speeded along by Xan's spell, as the party reacted faster than most of the soldiers could and cut a path with fire and lightning. Shar-Teel raced just behind the flames, chopping into injured guards and their smoking armor. "Seems all I get is your leavings," she complained, turning towards the next short span of stairs.

At the rear of their little procession, Moruene's apprentice stumbled on, gaping at the char-marks and the blood. "Do you have to…you weren't supposed to kill them…especially not _all_ …" he stammered.

"We supposed to read them poetry instead?" Shar-Teel asked with a backwards look and a blood-splattered grin. Then she raced up the steps.

Just short of the final flight, she stopped and dropped, crossbow bolts whizzing just above her head. Bracing low, with her fist and patta gauntlet pressed against a stone step, Shar-Teel muttered: "Bloody lots of 'em." She glanced back at her companions, who were now bunching up behind her on the stairs. "A dozen at least, dug in behind tables. It's some sort of mess hall."

" _Just_ bowmen?" Xan asked.

"All I saw."

Xan drew in one of his resigned breaths. "Follow me then." Before anyone could voice a protest or ask a question the elf straightened and marched up the steps. Imoen hastened to crawl-climb behind him, still keeping low.

The crossbowmen had, of course, reloaded, and a full volley of six or so bolts flew in the moment Xan stepped up, all aimed at him. A pillar of violet energy erupted up around him and flung every bolt aside, and Xan kept walking forward. The spell shielded him, _and_ his companions just behind.

"All those tables are flammable," Shar-Teel suggested, rising a little and making sure to keep behind the narrow shield.

_True. True._ Imoen dashed fully up the stairs and slipped out from behind her elf/cover, leveling her wand and sending a tear-shaped bolt of flame ahead of them all. It struck one of the tables that an unfortunate pair of crossbowmen were squatting behind, bursting on impact and expanding in a roaring ball of flames. A streak of electricity from Garrick zipped and sizzled its way through the other wing of the chamber, dropping several more Fists, their limbs trembling and the joints in their armor smoking.

Fire spread from table to table, plumes of smoke beginning to rise and the room taking on a hellish glow, but in the middle of the conflagration a familiar figure stood, not bothering with cover and completely untouched. There was some sort of bluish, flickering globe surrounding Commander Dosan —obviously a protective spell– and he held a longbow in one hand.

_We_ _'_ _ll see about that._ Imoen reached for one of her dispelling arrows and danced to the side. Shar-Teel was already out and ahead of the rest of them, stalking (odd that she wasn't dashing) over charred bits of rug.

Extending one hand out to the side, Commander Dosan gestured, and the growing flames dimmed and then winked out. At the same time, however, he did something completely unexpected: he held his longbow out, dropped it, and turned his head back towards the eight or so remaining soldiers, who had been backing away from the fire and reloading their crossbows. "Stand down!" he ordered. "Stand down, and back away. For the love of Helm, stand down!"

"S-sir?" one of asked.

The commander turned to face the group of invaders as they cautiously threaded their way out and fully into the dining hall, weapons and wands ready (even Moruene's apprentice seemed to have his hands out in an arcane gesture.) "We've lost more than enough men today," Anglo bellowed, standing stiff. "I've no wish to rule over ashes. We…surrender."

_Wow._ Imoen kept her arrow knocked, though not fully drawn, and to her surprise Shar-Teel didn't race forward and open the surrendering man's throat. Instead, the warrior-woman just walked forward, blades lowering.

"Sir…" the soldier stammered again.

"Withdraw! Take the wounded back down to the lower keep. I will go with these…intruders, to insure that they get what they came for. And then, hopefully, no more of my men need die." He looked to Xan. "If that is agreeable?"

"I'd like that," Imoen breathed. "Was you folks who tried to kill us in the first place!" Of course she'd _definitely_ keep her arrows ready. This was the guy who had ordered her death, after all.

The Fist soldiers beat an orderly retreat, dragging their injured with them and soon disappearing through the nearest door. As they left, Commander Dosan raised his hands, his protective spell fading. He gestured towards the ceiling. "I trust you are here for what's up there? The grand duke?"

"We're here to rescue him," Moruene's apprentice agreed. "From you, you damn traitor."

The commander just nodded, pivoting slightly towards Shar-Teel. "Though I'm shocked to see you here, of all places, Rashelt."

She snorted, taking a step closer and sheathing her sword. They were all edging closer to Commander Dosan now. "Maybe I just wanted to pay dear daddy a visit?" she hissed.

_Uh. What?!_

"Maybe ask why that underworld bounty on me is still floating around?" Shar-Teel went on. "Thought you'd given up on my marriage prospects after that incident at Roaringshore. But this summer I got captured by your big dumb ogre friend himself, and he made some interesting threats about domestication. About _charm_ spells. You wanna just try 'em here? Get it over with?"

Angelo Dosan gave his daughter…

( _Hrm. Yeah._ Imoen could see the resemblance now: same sharp little nose, something in the face, and the same color hair, 'cept his was greying. And she vaguely recalled _someone_ referring to Ess-Tee as 'Dosan.' Had it been one of the Flaming Fists?)

…a long, even look. "A mistake, I realize now. I had not seen what you had…become, after all these years. With those scars, and that _bulk,_ and the missing hand. Seems I have no _daughter_ left to bring home."

"The hand was because…" Shar-Teel began in a huff, then stopped, chuckling instead. "Well good. Good then! Being too ugly to marry off works for me." She reached out. "Your sword."

"Of course." The commander surrendered his sword belt to her, turning around and keeping his hands raised. "The stair to the high tower is over there. I'll lead you. Unless you plan on slitting my throat?"

Ignoring the comment, Xan and Imoen gave him a thorough search, snatching up weapons and spell components, along with a hand-sized scrying mirror similar to Xan's. Among the arrows in Angelo's quiver were four that had been enchanted to explode, like the one he had used at the Wyrm's Crossing.

_Yoink!_ As Imoen placed the arrows into her quiver she made special note of how the fletching felt. The arrows also had distinctive, rune-marked beads between the arrowhead and the shaft. _Hopefully_ there'd be no accidental detonations.

Once that was done, Xan leveled his sword at Angelo's back. "Lead us then," he stated. "Slowly."

"Of course."

Tense and silent, they filed through an adjacent hall that opened onto a spiral stair. This place was familiar, winding up and up and passing several stories of the octagonal fortress's central tower. As they climbed Xan shifted in beside Imeon, holding his free hand out.

_I may come to regret handing you such a powerful and dangerous toy_ , his voice sounded in her mind, _since you have already collected so many. But_ _…_ _here._ He opened his hand, dropping a smooth, bluestone ring into her palm. _Courtesy of Commander Dosan._

_Oh! What_ _'_ _s it do?_

_Twist it around your finger, and an expended charge will make you invisible. Use it_ sparingly. _I did not examine it thoroughly enough to tell how many charges are left._

_We_ _'_ _ll do that later._ She slipped the ring onto her finger. _And thanks!_

Another story up, and Imoen became aware of a strange, _dull_ pressure in the air. She glanced around, and there seemed to be something slightly off about the color of her companion's clothes and the stone walls; washed-out and faded. At the same time the glow-flames on Xan's sword winked out. "Wha-?"

"It's a zone of antimagic," Karsa said, mater-of-factly. "One of the tower's main defenses. Which _someone_ activated to keep us out."

Angelo nodded and kept walking. They climbed on.

_Ugh. Antimagic._ Walking further and further _into_ something like that was more than a little uncomfortable, knowing that every enchanted bauble that Imoen was carrying (new ring and arrows and wand included) were now just useless weight. It also meant that Angelo wouldn't be able to pull any magic tricks though. Still, Imoen kept her hand at her dagger and her eyes on his neck.

They emerged in Eltan's office, the walls lined with glowlamps and the windows dark. Would have been a pretty good view of the city from here, if this were daytime. As they approached the door leading to the inner chambers it burst open and a man in a tabard marked with the eye of Helm stepped forward. Before the priest could speak, Angelo turned to the side and gestured. "That's a doppelganger, by the way."

Immediately the priest let out a hiss and his face began to ripple, his hands rising up like claws. He managed to advance about one-and-a-half steps before Shar-Teel had reached him with her sword and run him through, lifting him off the floor. Soon he resolved into a faceless —and then lifeless— thing, and with a grunt Shar-Teel flung him down against the doorframe.

They walked on, and found Grand Duke Eltan about where they had left him: cocooned beneath thick blankets in his broad, covered bed; the curtains all tied up. He had thinned a great deal in the past few weeks, eyes sunken and skin yellowing, and there was a rank smell in the air. He seemed to lack the strength to speak, though he did manage to level a sharp glare at Angelo as everyone filed into the room.

The flat of Xan's moonblade struck the back of Angelo's head a few steps in, eliciting a startled shout (and a raised eyebrow from Imoen.) "Keep your distance from the duke," Xan warned.

"Of course," Angelo muttered. "Bind me if you wish." He took a few steps backwards towards the wall.

Moruene's apprentice had not gone over to the fellow he was so intent on rescuing. Instead he had immediately started searching the inner corner of the room, where a support pillar stood. Looked like the pillar was at the center of the tower, and marked with glyphs that glowed a dull purple. The apprentice reached out and pulled a loose, rune-marked stone out of its groove. Once it was free, all of the other markings sputtered out, and the heaviness in the air abated, the antimagic field lifting.

"There," the apprentice beamed. "Tower's open."

Before any of them could form a response there was a rush of air and a woman rippled into existence beside the bed; clad in black, with gray hair done up in an elaborate bun. Moruene stood rigid as she entered, then wobbled slightly, a knee buckling. She clutched her side and gripped the bedpost, waiting for the spell to pass.

A moment to straighten and recover, and then Moruene slipped a bottle of black glass from her belt and bent forward, unstopping the cork. "Eltan! Drink," she ordered. Looked like a bit of a struggle, but soon she had him swallowing a little at a time.

Coughing and wincing after the final drink, the grand duke sat up, and after a few moments of struggled breaths he croaked out a: "Thank you."

"Borda and I cooked that up. It should clear the poison completely, curse or no."

_Well what do ya know? We rescued the Grand Duke after all!_ Imoen found herself beaming. _Course_ _…_ _it might be a little awkward when he finds out what's become of his castle._ She fingered her new ring. Disappearing when uncomfortable questions came up would probably be a good idea-

There was a muffled, crackling sound from the next room, and their heads turned towards the door, and although it was closed tight Imoen _felt_ a dry, smoky heat brush against her cheek. Winds from…from a place she remembered? Where?

Moruene shot to her feet, wincing and turning from her sickly husband to face the far door. And an instant later that door flew open with a mighty crack and Imoen's jaw fell.

Time seemed to slow as a figure that was too broad and tall for the doorway ducked and shouldered its way through, carved from black steel, bristling with jagged edges, and carrying a massive sword. Great, curved horns sprouted from his helm, above sharpened tusks and a visor lined the decorative teeth. And behind those teeth –and the kohl that smeared his lids– the man's eyes _burned_ with golden fire.

( _The fire of Perdition!_ She could feel the heat and the searing, volcanic power.)

It was **him!** The man from that night! The horned knight! The one who shrugged Gorion's spells off like they were nothing, and then ran him through! The Bhaalspawn! Him! Him! **Him!**

Moruene lit up like a phoenix, a warp of protective magic shimmering all around her and white-hot magefire flaring to life in her palms. Everyone was backing away from her and the armored man, Garrick and Xan both stumbling into the doorway and tangling up. _Good idea! Retreat!_ Imoen scampered back to join them. Seemed like the tower might be about to explode.

As she backed-scampered, hastened by her boots, Imoen passed Moruene's appearance, who was staring forward dumbly. She thought to grab and tug him, then noticed that, instead of gawping at the glowing wizardess or the advancing, armored demon, the boy was examining his own empty hand. The one that had been holding the runestone.

His head then turned, and Imoen followed the apprentice's gaze just in time to catch sight of Angelo Dosan, standing at the corner-pillar and shoving the runestone back into place. A dull pressure fell over the bedchamber, light and color diffusing, and Moruene's arcane fire sputtered out all at once.

The hellfire glow in Sarevok's eyes winked out as well, but that didn't matter: he was rushing across the room now with his blade raised to strike, and magic or no, that was a big, sharp hunk of steel. The swing came with blinding speed, Moruene's hands flew up defensively, and then, with a shower of blood, both of those hands went spinning through the air, severed at the wrist. Her head followed.

Momentum carried Sarevok's armored bulk along, and he pivoted, shouldering Moruene's body aside and raising his greatsword above the bed. It chopped down in an explosion of silk, splinters, and feathers, but Eltan had scrambled forward and leapt by then. The duke landed in an awkward stumble, wobbled to his feet, and then managed to duck beneath a horizontal slash.

There was movement at the doorway that Sarevok had burst through. A Kara-Turan woman in black armor had pushed through and entered the bedroom, and there was an olive-skinned man in red and obviously enchanted clothing behind her.

Imoen violently shook her head ( _Shake the cobwebs out, damnit!_ ) and raised her bow, drawing an arrow back. At first she leveled it at Sarevok's back. Looked like it would just bounce off armor, though. She swerved on Angelo, but he had ducked down behind a table, so she swerved some more and let loose. The arrow streaked past the Kara-Turan woman and caught the Calishite mage in the neck, sending him clutching and falling back into the adjacent room. He had probably been counting on magical protections to save him.

_Ha! Two can use this antimagic stuff, ya soghead!_ Her hand flew up to pluck another arrow and she loosed, but it ricocheted off the Kara-Turan woman's armored back as she dove into the far room after the fallen mage. Looked like she was trying to tend to the wound.

The others were taking action now, spurred on. Garrick launched a crossbow bolt square at Sarevok's back, leaving a faint dent but otherwise going ignored. The big, horned guy kept after Eltan, his sword a blur.

Weak and sickly as he looked, Eltan still managed to dodge and back away, knocking a dresser over and into one of Sarevok's downward chops. Bits of wood and finery flew, and for a moment the big warrior had to grunt and kick to free his sword.

Sarevok continued to ignore them as another of Garrick's bolts _ting_ ed harmlessly off his armor, along with one of Imoen's arrows, but he couldn't ignore it when Shar-Teel launched _herself_ at his back, sword raised to deliver a fearsome chop. Sensing the attack coming, Sarevok whirled and swept out with his larger sword, and Ess-Tee had to drop into a low duck.

"Ha!" Shar-Teel barked back as she sprung up to stab. The tip of her blade skidded off Sarevok's breastplate. "Big guy, huh?! Dressed all scary!" More slashes followed, tinging off his armor and his deflecting blade; searching for an opening. "Bet you love posing in that armor! Compensating for the fact that you can't fight for shit?! Huh?!" Not the least bit intimidated; Shar-Teel sounded eager.

Did she even know who this guy was?! Probably not. _'_ _Big, strutting man with a sword? Attack!'_

Shar-Teel was a blur of rolling shoulders and springy knees and whistling steel, but the big man kept up, repelling every strike with an underhanded guard and matching every twist and turn. His greatsword swept up, windmilling and forcing Shar-Teel's off and to the left. Then, without pause, that big-ass sword dropped in a _chop._

_Ding!_ Shar-Teel'd managed to fumble her gauntlet up and catch the blow, a block that kept her head from being caved in, but barely. The edge of the blade still smacked her forehead and she fell backwards, flopping across Moruene's corpse and cursing all the while. There was a _deep_ dent in her gauntlet.

At near the same instant that the blow struck the pressure in the room lifted and color returned. Sarevok's eyes flared with fire once again as he hefted his greatsword for another try at chopping Shar-Teel in half.

Imoen had an arrow knocked, trying to aim for the big guy's face, but as she drew back a figure blurred by and between her and her target, dressed in red.

"Stop!" Angelo shouted, slipping in front of Sarevok as the sword came slicing down. "Don't!" His crossed forearms caught the sword-blow and some sort of protective spell flared around him, turning the red and white of his uniform and the pink of his skin all to a slate gray. The layer of stone kept his arms from being severed —instead he stumbled back and grunted, little flakes of rock flying, some of them edged with red.

Growling in frustration, Sarevok reached out to grasp Angelo's shoulder. "Out of my way!"

"She's my daughter!"

Both Shar-Teel and Eltan were crab-crawling backwards, trying to get as far away from Sarevok as they could and heading towards opposite corners of the room. It left Sarevok and Angelo right together, by the far wall and the fallen dresser. And the antimagic field was gone.

Imoen let her arrow drop to the floor, fingers flying to grasp a different one. Fast as she could (and before she had time to think about what a bad idea this might be ) she knocked, aimed, drew, and _hoped_ that the blast from the detonating arrow wouldn't hurt anyone she didn't want hurt.

_Twang._ She covered her face and turned away from the blinding explosion that followed.

* * *

A bash from both sword hilts and a leap propelled Ashura past the pair of shield-locked soldiers, eyes on the target ahead. Her nose was full of smoke, rising up from the burns at her chest and shoulder; burns from arcane bolts the warmage had blasted her with a few breaths ago.

That bitch was _not_ going to toss a second spell.

The warmage was backtracking fast as she could while still weaving her hands round and round. Some sort of weeping green light formed between her fingers —another bolt: this one made of acid instead of energy.

Varscona cut the air between them, the edge of the blade hacking into the mage's forearm and spraying frost. The force of the blow knocked the hand that guided the acid-bolt acide, and then the spell flew, hissing past Ashura's ear. A little smoke rose up where a drop or two had splashed her shoulder, but nothing more: a miss, and then Ashura's offhand blade was up between the mage's ribs and the woman gave out something between a hack and a croak.

Momentum carried them a few more steps, then a bash of Ashura's elbow knocked the mage off the sword and onto the dirt of the courtyard. She spun around to face the other soldiers. One of them had already toppled, punctured by two of Coran's arrows. The other stood, stiff and straight with one arm held high and his sword dangling loose, while red light pulsed from his gaping mouth and Viconia's glowing hands gripped his throat. Blood trickled from the edge of the man's lips, the drow let go, and he dropped like a sack.

No movement close by, so Ashura took a moment to catch her breath and glance around. The melee had carried them all the way into the small courtyard just outside the fortress's keep. The massive oaken doors that led out into the city where open, and there didn't appear to be anyone up on the walls. Perhaps whoever had been guarding the outside gate had rushed into the foyer during the fight.

"Well then," Edwin began, brushing his hands together, but before he could finish whatever suggestion he had in mind he was interrupted by a massive _crack-BOOM_ from somewhere above the courtyard. All eyes turned to the brief flash of fire and smoke expanding from the topmost tower of the keep. An eruption of debris followed, and fell, bits of jagged stone arching and bouncing off the slope of the many-tiered rooves, some quite large and-

_Oh fuck!_

Ashura dove to the ground and grabbed a shield off one of the fallen soldiers, covering her face. There were crunches all around as bits of masonry rained down, along with a few little jolts and _tings_ when pebble-sized bits struck her shield.

When it sounded like it was over Ashura shot to her feet and found hers swords, facing the fortress. When her eyes alighted on the gate she scowled. The enemies that they had pushed past had had the good sense to drop the portcullis, barring the way back in. "Damnit!"

"Appears that we were destined to leave this place, regardless of heroic intentions," Edwin observed.

If they had just stuck closer together…

"That's not…a lock that I can pick," Coran apologized. "Though, perhaps I could climb the wall and…"

Ashura shook her head. "We'd better leave." She pointed. "Before someone closes that outer gate and we get bottled in." Too open, out here in the courtyard. If the Fist regrouped…

"One thing first," Edwin said, surprising her by stepping towards the portcullis and lingering a moment to run through the gestures of one last spell. A moment of chanting, and then a faint red light flickered and grew on the other side of the barred gate, followed by smoke. Something hunched and bulky seemed to rise from the fire, hefting what looked to be a jagged, glaive-like weapon, and with a snarl it lumbered forward and disappeared into the keep.

"A parting gift," Edwin explained, turning and starting towards the gate and the city beyond. "To the fools who _dared_ detain, strip, and flog a son of House Odesseiron." Somewhere beyond the portcullis, somebody screamed.

As they entered the darkened streets Ashura matched Edwin's pace. "That thing you summoned?" she asked. "It's not going to be a threat to..?"

Edwin shook his head. "The devil is commanded to attack anyone wearing a red and white tabard. (Hmph! That she would not assume that I had thought of every eventuality…)"

A few more steps down the street, and then another explosion echoed through the night. Ashura cringed, glancing over her shoulder to watch another cloud of rubble go up at the top and central tower of the keep. Well, hopefully Imoen was the one _causing_ the explosions.

* * *

A deep-throated snarl and the grind of steel. The explosion seemed to have had _no_ effect on Sarevok at all: he was a mountain of furious, jagged armor, rushing out of the smoke. Imoen ducked and rolled as his sword sliced down.

So massive, yet he was also _so_ damn quick: he spun around and sliced at her again as she leapt backwards. Reflex snapped her eyes shut, the sharp steel flashing before her. There was a white-hot _string_ across her cheek. She'd been cut!

Well, her brains were still working, so they hadn't been caved in. Hop-hop- _hop_ backwards! She did that 'till her back struck the wall, one eye open and the other covered by something hot and wet.

Her knees bent, ready for springing to the side, expecting a charge, but instead the big guy…just stood there a few paces away? Holding his sword out and staring down at it? There was a hiss and sizzle from the blade.

A light-show went up against the big armored guy's back: shimmers of whatever enchantment Xan could fling, along with burst of sparks as arcane bolts shattered against him. But Sarevok seemed oblivious. "You?" he rumbled, focused on Imoen alone.

"Yeah," she snapped back. "I remember you too, Kovey."

He shook his head. "You were..? All along you were there in the Keep and…" Words trailed off and turned to a chuckle, which grew into deep, booming laughter. "Ha ha ha! Of course!" And then he hefted his blade. "Of course! It was you!" And then he charged.

At least she'd had a chance to catch her breath. Imoen dodged aside.

Scurry! Dip! Dive and flee! She ducked under a wide slash of the big-ass blade. At least she'd distract him while the grand duke got awa-

But _ugh._ Eltan had stumbled back, trying to avoid the whirlwind of steel, and wound up in the wrong spot. Poor fellow had his back to the big open hole in the wall where a window used to be (before the exploding arrow) his nightshirt billowing in the breeze. It was the opposite side of the room from the path to the stairs where the others were huddling and tossing their big-bite spells.

A crazy idea came to her.

_Xan!_ Imoen thought/projected, hard as she could. Hopefully the linky-spell was still working. Antimagic effects suppress magic, but don't break off spell-effects. At least that's what she'd read. She hopped over a little stepstool and kicked it into the air between her and Sarevok. An odd little shield, but it did take the brunt of his swordblow, shattering to splinters.

_Y-yes?_ Xan managed back. _Nothing is working! I even tried my necromantic-_

_Nevermind that! Get everyone down the stairs! Spell-_ _'_ _em if you have to! Retreat! Now! Now! Now!_

_Um_ _…_

She threw a dressing mirror in Sarevok's face. _Do it!_ She twisted her ring as she sent the order, feeling the familiar shimmer of the invisibility spell, and then she dove towards Sarevok, rolling by beneath a blind slash. As she righted herself she heard the Kara-Turan-looking woman already chanting something that Imoen assumed would dispel the invisibility, but that wouldn't matter in a second.

Quick as her enchanted boots would carry her, Imoen ran straight at Grand Duke Eltan, flaring into visibility as she plowed into the emaciated fellow and, pressing an arm against his back, took them both _plunging_ through the big hole in the wall and over the edge. As she dove she chanted:

" _Aravak kres kretok!_ " The plunge ended abruptly a few feet in, and now they were both light as feathers, drifting out into the dark and icy winter's night. Hugging the duke, Imoen pivoted mid-air, stringing an arrow best as she could in the awkward position. Mr. Big, Armored Glow-Eyes had followed, and now he was standing on the ledge just out of reach, pointing with his sword.

Impotently. _Ha-ha! Take this!_

The bowstring thumped, the arrow arced and sailed towards Sarevok's feet, and Imoen kept her and Eltan turning as the night lit up and the _arrow of detonation_ landed just inside the tower. _Ka-BOOM!_

Bits of dust and stone struck her back, along with a rush of hot, gritty air that propelled them farther out.

Eltan was stammering; trying to speak. "Wha…what?" it seemed like he was asking (hard to tell over the ringing.)

"I just rescued you," Imoen explained. _Sorry about your dead wife, though. And your castle. And all your soldiers that me and my friends just killed._ Those parts were best not mentioned, at the moment (or ever, if she could help it.)

Gradually, they floated towards the ground.

* * *

Head ringing and sore in a thousand places, Angelo Dosan managed to prop himself up on his elbows and then wobble into a seated position. What had once been a bedchamber was now unrecognizable; a smoking, pitted ruin. At least his spell-protections had kept him from being torn apart by the blast.

He started to get to his feet, but before he could a steel fist shot down and suddenly he was choking and kicking, lifted by the neck. "You FOOL!" Sarevok snarled.

"Sh-she's my…" Angelo tried to rasp, grasping at the arm that held him aloft. His palm grew warm, cut by one of the spikes.

"Sentimental _fool_! If we are to rule we cannot let _anything_ stand in our way!"

"You need him," spoke a calm, weathered voice. Winski was a blur in Angelo's clouded vision. "The plan fails without control of the Flaming Fist."

"Hmph!" Sarevok grunted. "Such as they are."

"They are still an army," Tamoko stated. "You need them. And their leader."

One more sharp squeeze, and then Angelo went flying. He struck a wall and bounced to the floor, back and palms stinging. Without another word Sarevok walked towards the far door, where the portal still waited. He glanced down at Semaj, but Tomoko gave him a shake of her head, and then they walked on. A moment later the portal crackled, and the dull hum that had been hanging in the air faded.

Straightening, Angelo rubbed his aching throat. He found that he was sitting by the gaping ruin that had once been the tower's east wall. Far below, the lights of the city glimmered. The wind up here was cold.

_The plan. The Fist._ _'_ _Such as they are.'_ How many _had_ they lost this night?

Shaking his head, Angelo rose and took a step forward. Sarevok had resisted the urge to throw him out of the tower. Of course, he may have been able to speak the words of the teleportation spell before striking the ground. And the spell was still ready. He could think of a few destinations he would rather be than up here, tonight.

The idea of war –and his own, unfettered command– had been quite appealing when Sarevok had first proposed it. War means opportunities. Openings. Leaves vacuums to be filled, often by the minor houses who are left standing. Even minor, indebted houses, once on the brink of disappearing.

Or so he had thought. But this…was this just a taste of what Sarevok had in store for the Flaming Fist? For the City? 'Deathbringer' had just sounded like an impressive title, but it seemed the man intended to live up to it.

_Well. Far too late to turn back now._

Steel rattled, and Angelo started and turned his head. Tamoko had not left with the others. She stood nearby, still glowing with whatever blessings she had placed on herself during the battle. "Hm?" Angelo cringed at the raspy sound of his voice. "Did you want something?"

She nodded, meekly. "Yes. If I may trouble you?" _Those Kozakuran women. So demure._

"Sure. What do you want?"

She took a single step closer, opened her mouth as if to speak, and then, with blinding speed, she lunged, and before Angelo could so much as twitch in reaction the girl had one hand against the back of his head and the other clamped to his chin. With spell-enhanced strength she _wrenched_ , something gave, a hideous crack sounding in Angelo's ears. Blinding pain followed.

A shove, and then he was flying through the open air.

As the wind roared past his ears Angelo struggled to speak the words of a spell, but that proved difficult with a broken neck. The ground rushed up to meet him.

* * *

Once the stiff, armored woman had shoved the useless man over the edge and watched him fall, she stretched her hands out and began to hum to herself. Wisps of blue-white light curled at her fingertips, and then she _leapt_ from the tower's ledge, not plummeting but drifting out into the darkness. She almost seemed to walk upon the winds as she descended, vanishing from sight.

Well, no matter. And no loss.

The woman had served her purpose, clearing the last vermin from Tiax's tower, and then, conveniently, she had showing herself out. Head back and chin high, Tiax strode out from behind the shattered wardrobe which had been providing him with shade, hands pressed into his resplendent jacket as he surveyed his newly acquired home.

_Hm._ The high tower had looked so much grander from the ground. Looking up at the imposing fortress that he _knew_ would one day be his, Tiax had often dreamed of the soft beds, warm baths, and sumptuous meals he would enjoy in these grand chambers.

He had _not_ , however, expected the ceiling to be riddled with holes and starting to cave in, nor for an entire wall to be missing, nor for the floor to be near collapse in places. There was also the matter of the dead man sprawled out in the side-room and the woman spread out in several pieces by the bed. The servants would _quite_ the time getting all those stains out.

"Well," Tiax proclaimed to no one in particular, "'tis an opportunity to remodel the seat of Tiax's power, and more to Tiax's liking! The walls and ceiling need more gold and basalt, for instance." He gestured towards the less-damaged wall. "And there shall sit Tiax's next throne!" Yes! A grand throne of gilded mahogany.

Though, for now, he would be forced to settle for the broken slab of masonry conveniently laid out before him. Sitting down upon it, Tiax pulled out his pipe.

At least the missing wall provided a lovely view of his kingdom: by rights all the rolling rooftops and sharpened towers that stretched out beneath his sight were his! Shame it was so cold up here, though. Tiax clutched his coat closer, struggling to guard against the bitter winter wind.


	87. Rabbit Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It can't be bargained with. It can't be reasoned with. It doesn't feel pity, or remorse, or fear! And it absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are dead!" –Kyle Reese from The Terminator

_"_ _Even a man who has seen countless campaigns and trained all of his life to fight can be taken down by a single, unexpected blade."_ -Bhaal the Assassin

* * *

Snow wafted down through the pale streetlight, alighting on rooftops and cobblestones. Only a shallow dusting so far, but it was enough to start painting the city a ghostly white. Beyond the faint scuffing of Ashura's boots against the road, all was silent. She trudged ahead of the others, not completely sure where she was going, but happy to put as much distance between her and the fortress as she could.

_Where to?_ A good question. Would be nice if she knew where Sarevok was sleeping tonight. Finding some way to reunite with Imoen would also be-

Her eyes shifted to the rooftops, catching movement through the snowfall, and at the same time Viconia hissed a warning. There was a figure floating down, above the row of houses just ahead; dressed in black armor, with a pale complexion, and long, dark, wind-whipped hair. Light as a seed on the breeze, the figure drifted down to the edge of a roof, tapped its feet against the overhang to push off, and then descended towards the street.

It was Tamoko. Ashura gripped the hilt of her longblade, but did not yet draw it as the priestess touched down. "So you can fly, huh?" Ashura asked.

"Kossuth provides most of my power," the woman replied, in her roundabout way, "but if necessary I can draw from Akadi as well. Or channel the strength of Grumbar, or even the elasticity of Istishia, though that is more difficult."

"What do you want?"

"To assist. As I attempted before. I did warn you that-"

"Yeah. Angelo practically bragged about working for Sarevok."

"Angelo Dosan is now dead," Tamoko stated plain. "Your friends disrupted his plans. And I finished him."

"She speaks the truth," Viconia whispered. "As before. And as before, I advise that you do _not_ trust her. Her words are as carefully measured as a devil's."

"When last we met," Tamoko continued, "I told you of Cythandria and her books, which carefully guard the names of nobles that Sarevok has…compromised. Tonight she sleeps in the tower of the Iron Throne. I know you have been…hampered-"

"(An understatement)," Edwin grumbled.

"-but if we move swiftly we can still catch her. We can obtain evidence of Sarevok's plot, before it comes to fruition."

Ashura started forward. The street they were on led to the docks, after all. "We?" she asked.

"Would you turn down my assistance? You have gathered quite a motley assortment of allies so far."

"None of them worked for the people who've been trying to kill me," Ashura grumbled. Still, she didn't say anything more as Tamoko slipped in beside her. Perhaps the priestess could be useful.

After a few silent strides Ashura shot their new 'companion' another glance. _Yeah._ She had definitely seen this woman –with her distinctive black platemail– on one of the battlefields before. Had it been in the chaos at the Cloakwood mine? Tazok's camp? The push up to the top of the Iron Throne tower?

Tamoko's gaze was fixed ahead. "I have a brother," she stated, abruptly. "He is Hojo Kawakubo's most prized manhunter. Should I be slain, he would come to these lands, seeking my killer. And should he succeed, perhaps someone would seek vengeance against him? T'would be an unending —and unproductive— circle of death, no?"

"Does Cythandria have some brother who'll avenge her?"

Tamoko chuckled.

"Sounds like a lot of moralizing bullshit, then."

"I am not moralizing"

"Threatening, then?"

"Perhaps I am simply pointing out how you limit —and possibly doom— yourself by trying to stab all of your problems."

"The people who've been trying to murder me are just 'problems?'"

"Exactly. Problems to be solved. Perhaps with alliances, or with words, lies, truth, gold, your sex; whatever will work. That is how the leaders who _last_ approach obstacles. You cannot hope to chop down the entire world."

"Watch me."

Again, Tamoko laughed. "Ah. Hot-blooded youth. And I suppose it is your nature, as well. You do not seem to shy away from _that_."

"Why should I?"

"You would perform exactly as the Lord of Murder preordained? Has it not occurred to you that he had no happy endings planned for his children?"

"You may have a point," Ashura conceded. Seemed a lot of her life, and even the recent months, had been spent being pulled along by others. And most recently…the rack; the irons; that shivering and shaking _powerlessness._ She scowled ahead. "Of course," she eventually gritted out "if it wasn't for my 'nature,' do you know where I'd be right now? I'd be buck naked, torn apart, with my limbs dislocated on the rack while they started working on my teeth." It was a fight to keep her voice steady as she said that, but she managed, glaring ahead. "But instead, I'm whole. Ripped the life right out of the pair of bastards who were going to work the pliers."

"If not for your nature you-"

"Yeah, but here we are. I'm not Sune's daughter. Or Ilmatar's."

"Hm. Yes. Fate, and the gods, and causality itself, draw tight nets. There _are_ ways to slip them, however."

"Oh?"

But the priestess said no more, and they fell into a silent march from there.

* * *

"Beshaba's breath! Talona's toes! Gods, gods, **_gods_**!" The young apprentice was stammering and pulling at his hair as they all stumbled down the final flight of stairs. "That did _not_ work! That did _not_ go as planned!"

"Yeah, no shit," Shar-Teel muttered.

They stepped down into the grand foyer, where one of the larger halls led out to the courtyard, and as they turned in that direction Garrick placed a hand on the apprentice's shoulder, partly to comfort and partly to guide. "It's not your fault," was all he could think to tell the poor fellow.

"Duke Eltan went flying out a window!" Karsa snapped. "And Moruene…can a high priest even fix it if..? Beshaba's breath!"

Passing perhaps a dozen armored corpses that were scattered across the floor, they reached the inner gate and found that the portcullis was down. Shar-Teel went to work on the crank, and Garrick rushed over to join her.

"Imoen did say that she had a plan," Xan stated, voice numb. "Before she…before she leapt…"

"So she's okay?" Garrick suggested with a smile. Imoen _had_ said that she always kept a _featherfall_ spell handy...

"I don't know!" Xan blurted. He sighed. "Once again."

A moment passed, and then Xan seemed to think of something, reaching into a pocket of his robes, but before he could find whatever he was searching for, footsteps drew everyone's attention. A trio of guards had entered the foyer, spears bristling as they sighted the intruders and began to inch forward.

Garrick reflexively reached for his hand-crossbow, but Xan interposed himself first and did not draw his blade. Instead, the Greycloak faced the soldiers and greeted them with swirling fingers and a quick flash of light, which left them all swaying. "We are friends of the grand duke," Xan droned at the stunned guards. "You had best go and inform the rest of your…regiment or platoon, or whatever they are called. Inform them that friends of the grand duke have arrived."

As one, the soldiers nodded. "Of course," one of them concurred, and then they turned and marched off.

Xan leaned against the wall and let out a long breath once the Fists had disappeared.

"Should'a just gone marching through the fortress doing that," Shar-Teel remarked, starting to crank the winch once more.

"That would not have worked if any of them had been a priest or a mage," Xan sighed. "Nor can I do it again. We need to flee. Quickly. Or the next bloodbath may be our own."

"What a disaster," Karsa repeated, staring off. Seemed like he was lost in his own little world.

"Yeah," Shar-Teel grunted, annoyed, "well, that's battle for you. Just be glad you still have your hide. And be mad that you didn't get paid for your trouble. It's a lesson. Should _demand_ coin next time you get sent to risk your ass in…" She gestured vaguely at the fortress "…someplace like this."

Now that the portcullis was raised, they hastened beneath it and out into the little courtyard beyond the keep. Patches of blood colored the shallow dusting of snow and the damp dirt, along with several more corpses dressed in red and white tabards. They started for the gate out to the city, but Shar-Teel slowed, and then halted near one of the bodies, looking down. It was a man in a tattered uniform, his limbs twisted; an arm and a leg obviously broken. His neck was turned at a painful-looking angle too.

And his face was familiar. Angelo Dosan gaped up at the night sky.

Garrick's mouth fell open, he started to say something ('I'm _so_ sorry Shar-Teel'…) but then stopped himself. Would she…would she hit him if he tried to be consoling? Shar-Teel just stood there stiffly, looking down at her father's body.

"Imoen? Imoen? Are you there?" Xan was pleading into his tiny scrying mirror.

Shaking her head, Shar-Teel turned back towards the outer gate, and without a word she started for it. The others fell in line behind her.

* * *

Slamming doors and clomping feet stirred Skie from her dreams. She shook awake and sat up, blinking in the pitch dark before fumbling for her slippers and her dressing gown, followed by a candlestick. Once that was lit, she rubbed her eyes and stumbled her way to the bedroom door, peaking out into the adjacent sitting room.

It was probably past the third hour of the morning, but all of the lamps had been lit, and servants were bustling about, most rushing off. Before Skie could think to call out, she noticed her father marching in through the far doorway, clad in his silver platemail. A man rushed along at his side, carrying Entar's plumed helmet, and an entourage of house guards and servants followed close behind.

Trailing them all were Skie's mother and Mrs. Goldsworth. It had been some time since Skie had seen Lady Brilla Silvershield appear so disheveled: clad in a silk dressing gown and a simple kerchief, rather than the tall hats that she favored. Mrs. Goldsworth was dressed in her usual sharp greys.

Grand Duke Entar Silvershield took a direct path towards his daughter, his face grim.

"Father? W-what is happening?" Skie found herself stammering.

Entar stopped a few paces from the dooway, stiff as always. When he spoke his voice was measured. "Do not be alarmed, but there has been…some sort of attack on the Flaming Fist. We fear it may be the Amnish surprise that everyone has been preparing for, and must be ready for the worst. For your safety, lock and bolt your door. A guard will be posted."

"If…if you think that's…"

"I do."

"Don't worry, dear," Mrs. Goldsworth interjected, her tone gentler than father's. "We'll make sure that your parents are in a safe place." She glanced over at her husband, who was standing beside Entar, and then reached over to place a reassuring hand on Lady Brilla's shoulder.

Lady Brilla's upper lip quivered and curled at the touch, looking down at the governess's hand as if it were a pile of bird droppings that had just landed on her shoulder. _Woops._ Skie cringed. Servants were _never_ supposed to-

But then Brilla's disgust turned to something else, her mouth widening as a pale, blue-white glow began to illuminate her face, spreading out from Mrs. Goldsworth's hand. There was a brittle, crackling sound,and the cold light expanded, spreading over Brilla's shoulder and down her arm. White mist began to waft off her skin and her gown, frost trailing up her neck and then across her cheeks. Her mouth hung open now in shock, eyes wide as plates, and then her entire face frosted over, hair and kerchief going stiff. Pink skin became blue in the space of a heartbeat, ice-crystals beading.

"Mother!" Skie managed to shout.

Entar reacted at the same time, a hand gripping the hilt of his longsword as he spun towards his wife and her…attacker?!

But Mr. Goldsworth had shifted in beside Duke Silvershield, a sword suddenly appearing in his hand, and then the blade shot up, more than half of it disappearing into the gap in Entar's armor, right at the armpit.

It had all happened so fast, but now time seemed to stand still; father gasping and wobbling there with Mr. Goldsworth holding onto his plated arm and pushing the sword as deep as it would go; mother _frozen_ in slack-jawed terror, her face, shoulders, chest, and left arm all covered in misting frost while Mrs. Goldsworth gripped her. There was a terrible _crack_ , and then that arm shattered like glass, the forearm dropping to the carpet in a shower of red shards. A shove followed, revealing a blood-stained dagger in Mrs. Goldsworth's other hand, as Brilla toppled forward, stiff as a board. When her face struck the floor there was an ugly _crunch_ , chunks of ice-encased flesh and blood and bone breaking apart.

The other guards had all reached for their weapons, most turning inward on the man who had just driven a blade into their duke. Swords were fumbled out, awkward in close-quarters, and one man managed to lay a hand on Mr. Goldsworth's shoulder, trying to push him off his feet.

By then Mrs. Goldsworth's hand had shot up into the air, a glowing runemark hovering just above her open palm that cast a violet light across the room. "No you don't," she taunted, a manic grin now plastered on her face, and then the rune exploded in a flash that forced Skie to squint and turn. Every guard and panicked servant who stood close to Entar and the Goldsworth's seemed to buckle, then as one they all swooned and dropped to the floor.

Mr. Goldsworth had slipped his blade free, stepping back, and without his support Entar Silvershield dropped to his knees. Blinking, Skie realized that a small crossbow had appeared in Goldsworth's hand, rising and taking aim at…

… _her!_ There was a bolt locked in, tiny but sharp, the point black and smudged with something.

With a furious, unintelligible noise, Entar surged to his feet, his sword finally clearing its scabbard and rising. The swipe forced Mr. Goldsworth to hop backwards, and as he did he tossed the crossbow aside in favor of his blade, parrying an overhand slash from Entar. "Some fight left in you, old man?" he chuckled, slashing in retaliation.

Just behind the melee, Mrs. Goldsworth had her hands raised, fingers stretching, her eyes and her predatory grin fixed squarely on Skie. Little orbs of blue-white light began to dance between her fingertips.

"Skie!" father was shouting, his sword and Mr. Goldsworth's grinding close. Another slash, and another parry. "Skie!" he repeated, head turning to look his daughter right in the eye. "Skie! RUN!"

Obeying without thought, Skie backed up three quick steps and slammed her bedroom door in front of her. Not a breath later the door shook on its hinges, wood snapping in several spots as indentations appeared. None of…whatever it was that Mrs. Goldsworth had thrown broke completely through, however, and after a violent shake of her head Skie rushed forward, bolting and then locking the door.

_Beshaba_ _'_ _s breath!_ Mrs. Goldsworth was a mage! A powerful one too. A _deadly_ one. Her mother and…the shattered ice and…and father had taken what looked like a mortal wound-

_'_ _RUN!'_

There were scuffling sounds beyond the door, and in a daze Skie found herself turning away and rushing to one of her dressers. Throwing it open, she tossed a pile of clothes aside and found the secret compartment at the bottom, pulling it open and at the same time kicking off her slippers. She was running on reflex now, swift and silent and thoughtless, just like the countless times she had rushed to change outfits and sneak away for a night in the Undercellars. Her traveling clothes lay in a neat little stack, along with her boots, her sword and dagger, a couple of useful potions attached to her belt, and her enchanted cloak which protected against scrying. Fast as she could, she stripped out of her nightgown and slipped each garment on.

On the other side of the door there was a roaring sound, like a hearthfire catching.

Turning from the dresser, Skie raced over to her desk, prying open another of her hiding places. There it was, resting beneath the jewelry: Imoen's scroll. The trump card. The lock-opening spell.

Something heavy began to bash against the door, and a smell wafted in from the other side: charred wood and cooked meat.

Ignoring that, Skie turned to the window, unfurled the scroll, and began to do her best mage impression, humming out the Draconic words and following the alien patterns as precisely as she could. White light flickered, the parchment dissolved between her fingers, and then with a click the gnomish device at the window unlatched. Skie wasted no time grabbing the pane and ripping it fully open, cold winter wind blasting her face.

The sound of the door splintering made her shiver, hands shaky and feet heavy as lead. She fought the panic down, forced her gaze away from whatever was happening at the door, and just focused on following the steps she had always taken when she had snuck out:

Crawl up onto the sill, brace your feet there (the assassins were rushing into the bedroom now, spellwords on Mrs. Goldsworth's lips), and then leap and catch the branch of the old maple tree. Next you let go (and as she did that a streak of fire sizzled past her head, lighting up the night and striking a snowy branch with a hiss), and drop down to the lower branch, then the one beneath that, bracing your feet against the tree trunk. A swing, and then it's a short drop to the soft earth.

Up above, Mrs. Goldsworth was hanging out of the window, her next sing-song chant echoing down. Skie scampered up onto her feet, and as the night lit up again ( _lightning_ -blue this time) she dove forward, rolling through the powdery snow, away from the flashing light and the crackling-BOOM and the blast of ozone and sparks.

Righting herself —and **_not_** looking back— Skie raced, full speed, for the garden, dodging past every hedge, tree, and stone that she could find to put between herself and her pursuers.

* * *

Rushing past the pair of smoking husks that had been summoned demons a moment ago, Ashura chased her quarry up the steps and out onto the rooftop. A trail of blood marred the snow, ending where the conjuress stood at the gap that had been torn in the rooftop's fencing. Unsteady on her feet, Cythandria nevertheless managed to hold her arms up towards the night sky, chanting. An escape spell? An attempt to fly or float away?

_No you don_ _'_ _t!_

Ashura raced forward, aiming to impale the conjuress through the back, but before she could reach her a blast of artic wind roared in from beyond the tower, buffeting them both. It knocked Cythandria clean off her feet and flat on her back, and Ashura skidded to a stop, bending and stumbling. The light that had been building on Cythandria's palms flickered out.

Rolling and pivoting, Cythandra shot a hateful glare Ashura's way, then beyond her, to Tamoko. "Damn traitor!" she snarled, blood on her lips and one hand clutching at the wound in her side. Ashura stepped forward, her longsword tilting back and ready to stab.

"Her escape-spell is spent," Tamoko stated. "She is trapped."

"Aren't we here to kill her?" Ashura asked. Cythandria was scooting back across the roof, but it seemed she had no more spells to expend.

"First we need to see if she has the papers. And find out what she knows."

"Agreed," Viconia hissed from behind them both.

By then Cythandria had backed up to the wrought iron railing, and with an effort and a defiant glare she pushed herself up onto her feet. The hand that wasn't pressing against her wound slipped down to the large satchel that hung from her hip. "Right here," she growled.

"If you throw that-" Ashura began.

"Bah!" the conjuress spat, unfastening the strap. She tossed the bag at Ashura's feet. "Take it. You have me." Her gaze lifted. "Never thought _you_ would stab him in the back, Tamoko. Stab me, maybe. But not him."

"You did not know me."

Cythandria sneered. "Sure I did. _Intimately._ Don't suppose you'd spare me for…sentiment's sake?"

Tamoko just glared in silence.

Cythandria looked to Ashura. "And she didn't tell you, huh? That she was roping you into a lover's spat? That this is all just about jealousy?"

Ashura didn't reply. _Like I give a fuck?_ As long as they got to Sarevok. Her swords sheathed, she opened the satchel. There were several books inside, one of them obviously full of spells. Another looked to be some sort of ledger. She opened it, flipping through.

"There," Tamoko stated, close to her shoulder and pointing. "That list. Those are the names of the compromised nobles. Clear evidence to present to the grand dukes. I do not see the letter, however…"

Cythandria managed a pained snort. "The quasit flew with that thing nearly an hour ago. The Silvershields are already dead. Slyth and Krystin have probably moved on to- _hrk!_ "

Ashura had grabbed her by the neck and slammed her against the railing. "The Silvershield's?!" she snarled. " _Skie_ Silvershield?"

"Grand Duke E-Entar," Cythandria coughed. "And anyone else who's there near him. The assassins are notorious."

"Unfortunate," Tamoko remarked.

"We'll see," Ashura muttered, dragging her prisoner along and against the rails. They slid a few feet, reaching the spot where the fence was torn open. Cythandria managed to cry out and bat her fists against Ashura's armored arms a couple of times before she was shoved through the gap and off the tower's ledge.

After a brief glance down to make sure that the woman had struck the street and didn't get up, Ashura turned and raced for the door. Tamoko was soon at her side, Viconia silently trailing just behind (and probably ready to use one of those _harm_ -touches of hers should they be betrayed. When they had a moment alone Ashura would have to thank the drow for her vigilance.) "Why didn't you tell me us that the Silvershield's were the assassin's target?" Ashura demanded as they went.

"I did not know which grand duke would be first. Sarevok intends to kill them all."

"Damn." _Should have thought of Skie._

"This Skie Silvershield? She is a friend of yours?"

"Yeah."

"A shame."

"We'll see." At the very least, Skie would be avenged tonight.

* * *

The city streets were deserted; silent save the crunch of virgin snow beneath Skie's boots. She turned at random, eyes searching ahead and praying that she would stumble upon a patrol, but all was shadow and empty white –the windows dark and the doors tightly shut. No one was awake this time of morning, here on the respectable side of the upper city. At least it seemed like the hunters had been shaken. The cloak would protect her from divinations and-

As if summoned by that hopeful thought, Mrs. Goldsworth's voice sounded somewhere down the street behind her, gleeful and chanting.

Not daring to look back, Skie pitched her head forward and sprinted for the narrow gap between two buildings. She dove into the alley –hands scraping the snow and feet peddling away– as some sort of blue-white beam flashed by her head. Springing forward, she took off, full speed.

_Damnit! The snow!_ No matter where she went it would be trivial to track her.

She kept going, slipping around one corner and then another, stone walls looming close. _Stick to the alleys! Cover!_ Surely Mrs. Goldsworth would run out of spells eventually.

A shadow slipped into view ahead, dressed in form-fitting black and holding a short, glinting blade. The sword was not rounded like a typical gladius: instead coming to a harsh, triangular point. Skie recognized it too: the blade that had stabbed father!

Mr. Goldsworth advanced, and Skie skidded to a halt. Turning. Searching.

_Thank Tymora!_ There was a tight little side-alley nearby, and she managed to plunge through before Mrs. Goldsworth could flank her and bring another spell to bear. Several barrels lined the narrow passage, and beyond them lay the open street. One of the houses was a bit lower than the others, with a slanted roof that overhung the alley.

A mad idea!

Skie kept sprinting, then she leapt, tapping the top of a barrel with her foot and springing from there to grasp the overhang. She scrambled for purchase, found it, and with a little monkey-swing she managed to press her knees against the lip of the roof and gain a firmer grip. With a frantic twisting motion she hauled herself up onto the shingles, and then rolled onto her back.

_Oof!_ No time to lay about. She launched up onto her feet and started off along the rooftop. Up ahead loomed a slightly taller house, with a slanted roof in easy reach. She leapt across the gap.

Perhaps she would lose them this way. Could the hunters ever guess where she'd choose to climb down? And if she moved fast enough…

Her hand went to her belt, fumbling for one of her two glass vials, and the liquid sloshed around as she lifted the potion towards her lips. Stupid that she hadn't thought to drink this immediately and-

Just ahead, a shadow slithered onto the roof and shot to its feet. Mr. Goldsworth had climbed up as casually as some might walk, and now he turned to point his blade at Skie once again. The moon had begun to peak through the clouds, and with its light reflecting off the snow Skie had a much better view of the assassin than before: Goldsworth had shed his house guard uniform and armor, revealing some sort of black bodysuit. The outfit was torn in two spots, along his sword-arm and one of his legs, and where the fabric was peeled open it was clear that there were tiny strands of chain woven into the suit. Likely the tight cloth was much stronger than it appeared. A mithral underlay?

Skie took all of this in, mind racing, as her thumb popped the stopper from the potion bottle and she pressed the glass to her lips, swallowing the spicy liquid in one frantic gulp. Mr. Goldsworth was charging as the drink went down, his sword pointed out to skewer her, and then a giddy shiver ran through Skie's veins and everything –the assassin's lashing arm, his rising foot, and even the puffs of snow flying up into the air– seemed to _slow._

Hurling the empty vial at Mr. Goldsworth's face, Skie used her other hand to draw her blade. Mr. Goldsworth wove by the flying bottle, but there seemed to be a stiffness to his motions that had not been there when they had sparred, especially in the way that he landed on his wounded leg. Had father managed to—?

But, even _hasted_ as she was now, there was no time to _think!_

Skie swiveled and swung; a desperate parry. Goldsworth's sword whipped around hers, but she followed, adjusted, caught and slashed and stumbled back, her palm stinging.

He was a _lot_ stronger than he had let on in their little sparring sessions. He lunged and she dodged to the side, his blade whistling past her face. She turned her fall into a somersaulting roll, distancing and then shooting up onto her feet. Her cheek was wet and warm; stinging.

Again, he started to press, and Skie scuttled back, searching the corners of her vision for a way out. Instead she spotted a disturbance in the snow close by, then another and another, all in a regular pattern. Little marks that were just appearing — _Footprints!_

Mr. Goldsworth was lunging, and the footprints were closing in from behind. Skie leapt aside, ducked, raised her sword as if to parry, and then she spun and swung her blade (guessing) at the invisible stalker. It struck something solid (like a damned brick wall!), and there was a yelp from the unseen foe. In the same instant a terrible pain flared across Skie's arm.

She pushed and danced, using the force of her stab to propel herself backwards, scampering towards the edge of the roof. Mr. Goldsworth followed, looming close and hefting his sword for a diagonal slash. Skie caught it, yelping at the force of the blow. Felt like her arm might break!

The assassin reared back for another swing, and behind him the air was shimmering. His wife remained unseen, but she had begun to chant, and the light of her spell was plain enough.

Another step backwards and Skie would plunge off the roof, but at the moment that seemed more appealing than being blasted by an evocation or skewered on a sword. So, with a hop, she went over the edge, hoping that she wouldn't land on anything sharp. Her feet struck something narrow halfway down (the rim of an open rain barrel) and she managed to stumble-spring off of it. The barrel tipped over and Skie landed in the snow, her back striking a wall.

Mr. Goldsworth was leaping to follow, but Skie turned and took off between the houses before he landed, knocking a second barrel over as she hopped over a pile of refuse. Bursting out of the alley, she came upon an open, snow-packed street, and started across, eyes frantically sweeping ahead. If she could just find an unlocked door to duck through, or perhaps a window: obstacles to put between her and the hunters. But the houses were all dark.

Something heavy struck Skie's shoulder and nearly sent her stumbling, accompanied by a sizzle and a terrible burning sensation. There was a flash of light, then another burst of pain, lower on her back, and then another and another. Her sword fell from numb fingers, clattering to the snowy flagstones, and she fought to keep from dropping to her knees.

It hurt so much: the burns. The stitch in her side, too. And her arm, warm and wet with her own blood. And her knees, and her feet, and…

…and she kept going, grimacing and hastening, empty hands pumping before her as she sprinted for the maw of the nearest alley up ahead; not looking back, not thinking, just running - _running -_ _ **running!**_

* * *

The tree was still smoldering where lightning had scorched a path down its trunk. Coran knelt beneath its branches, on his hands and knees in the shadow of the manor house, examining a patch where the snow had been churned. A series of footprints ran between the disturbed spot and the estate gardens, where the skeletal shapes of dormant hedges glittered, covered in ice.

"She rolled on the ground here," Coran explained, standing, "and then she fled that way." He pointed to the garden. "These are her footprints. And that pair over there were made by the assassins."

"You recognize Skie's _footprints?_ " Ashura asked, more than a little skeptical.

Behind her, Viconia snorted. "Perhaps he knows the shape of all the female's feet. Some fetish of his…"

Coran was moving towards the garden now, and they all fell in behind him. "I was tracking things in the Wealdath not long after I learned to walk," the wood elf bragged. "I know fleeing when I see it. These prints are Skie's, and she was running for her life."

"We'd better hurry, then," Ashura said, increasing her pace. Skie's trail ended at the wall, as did the other, parallel sets. Seemed they had all climbed.

Without a pause or a word, Coran leapt for the wall, found handholds and footholds wherever he touched, and scampered up the surface like a squirrel. He was standing at the top in the space of a few breaths.

"Uh..?" Ashura asked from the ground. Tamoko was right beside her, but behind them both Edwin and Viconia were taking their time, and she couldn't imagine either of them trying to race up a wall.

Coran looked back. "Well, go around if you have to," he said. "But we need to hurry."

"Right." Ashura turned and took off for the gate.

* * *

Pushing through the gap between a tavern and an estate (both closed and silent, like everywhere else), Skie came to a row of ornamental hedges and twisted her way through. Just beyond, across the next road, stretched The Wide.

This time of night —and in the off-season— the grounds of the great market were just an empty patch of white, speckled here and there with the frames of unadorned stalls and a few tent poles. There were no patrols or passersby in sight. Still, she dared to race out into the open and cross the vacant street, taking the road that ran parallel with the market. She had been running blind, but it seemed her feet were taking her to familiar ground. And _maybe_ to a good place where she could hide. She picked up the pace.

Perhaps a hundred strides ahead, just beyond the market stalls and tucked between two houses, lay a nondescript little hatch: the common entrance to the Undercellars. If she could just make it there, to the elaborate maze of stone corridors that she knew so well, where there was no snow to leave tracks upon, perhaps she could disappear.

Focusing on her destination, Skie raced down Silverpinch Way, fast as she could and ignoring the stab in her side and the burns on her back and the blood streaming down her arm. She was about halfway down the street when the lightness in her limbs and the frantic energy that had been fueling them just…evaporated. _Puff_. She almost dropped to her knees, lungs burning, nose snotty, and her ragged breaths turning to a choked cough.

_No! No! No!_ The potion had worn off! Unsteady, she lifted one foot, then the other, beginning to trudge down the street. Just a block or less to go.

She had made it about four steps when laughter rang from the far side of The Wide, sending a chill through her veins. A pair of shadows were sauntering around the hedges. How had they followed so quickly..?

_No! Only think of what's ahead! And_ move _!_

Sucking in a breath, Skie turned away from the hunters and made herself run, lungs and limbs protesting but moving nonetheless.

Too slow! Too much ground to cover! No way would she make it out of the open before Mrs. Goldsworth started blasting more holes in her and-

_Just_ ahead, something dark and irregular marred the snowy street: a round, cast iron sewer grate, propped a bit out of its usual slot, with footprints leading away as if someone had climbed out recently. Three paces brought Skie _right_ up to it, skidding and bending down to push at the iron wheel. It slid forward easily enough, leaving a gap that she could slip through. Down she went, plunging feet-first beneath the street and catching the rim of the grate.

It wobbled and she held on briefly, hanging like she would from a tree-limb and reaching out to grasp one of the rungs along the sewer wall. The moment she caught it she let herself drop further ( _Oof!_ ), banged into the rungs, and steadied herself. She started to climb down, thought of the hunters racing across the street just above, and then just let go, chancing a drop into the darkness.

Knees bending, she landed on a stone surface. The sound of trickling water echoed everywhere, and the air was predictably foul. Turning away from the wall, Skie fought to orient herself, terrified that she may have just gotten trapped in a dark pit. But there was light enough to see by: some filtering down from the street lamps and the moon up above, but most emanating from one of the tunnels. Facing that direction, she started forward, quick as she could, scampering across the duckboards that spanned the waters.

Lights. _Yeah_. Red and blue, they reflected off the slimy walls. She knew their source before she rounded the bend in the tunnel and spotted the hooded lanterns, strung across the passageway on ropes, and they guided her towards a curtained doorway: one of the many paths to the Undercellars. Most visitors came and went through the most well-known (and least smelly) entrance, but there were at least a dozen ways to get in and out, if you were willing to brave the sewers or the other dark places of the city.

Quick as she could, Skie slipped around the heavy curtain, the sewer-stench instantly replaced by incense and perfume, along with the cloying scent of pipeweed. And up ahead —for the first time since she had fled the manor— there were people! A small crowd, at least, milling about by the walls and the rows of curtains, masked and chattering in low voices.

A few of the patrons gave Skie curious looks, but most ignored her as she passed by. People often came to this place to be _unseen_ , after all, especially if they took one of the side-passages, and scuffed-up, frazzle-haired, back-alley characters stumbling by in search of a rental room were fairly common. Among other things, this was a place where fugitives went to ground.

Outsiders often called the Undercellars a Festhall, and that was mostly accurate. Of course it was less a single, organized 'hall,' and more of a rat's nest of little brothels, gaming clubs, lotus dens, drinking pits, dancing halls, baths, and rooming spaces, all run by loosely allied criminals, with the peace kept by Ravenscar's guild; a chaotic night-market that had grown, unplanned, beneath the city.

Skie had once found all of that thrilling. Her peers and elders had whispered of the _scandalous_ goings-on in the Undercellars, so the moment she found a way to seek the place out she had, and found it to her liking. The dance halls, especially.

Now –numb, bloodied, and bleary-eyed– she stumbled down the familiar passageways, simply searching for the best place to hide. The halls here were lined with spiral-patterned pillars and curtained doorways, the fabric sometimes thick and closed for privacy, but more often translucent and drawn back, so as to invite passersby.

Soft whispers and dim, diffuse light peaked through some of the doors, while others were bright and rich with the cheer and laughter of gamblers. The rumple-rustle of cushions and the smell of black lotus wafted heavy from other chambers, and through one of the larger doors a faint splashing echoed, clouds of scented steam curling up along the lintels. And, of course, there were many doorways where women lounged and posed and beckoned, dressed in next-to-nothing.

Skie passed by each chamber (Dead ends! The hunters would search them), through the laughter and the incense, approaching the end of the corridor. The thrum and thump of fast-beating drums and stomping feet greeted her, echoing from behind a pair of thick curtains, and as she drew closer her ears caught the chime of bells and the shrill whistle of flutes. She quickened her pace.

Up ahead was the corner of The Undercellars she remembered best, and likely the most crowded. A pair of masks hung above the doorway, a bit like those depicting comedy and tragedy, but both were leering and marked with glittering bits of moonstone (actually just glass beads, if you examined them closely.) There was a guard stationed at the curtain, but he just gave Skie a skeptical look as she shouldered by, passing through and stepping onto the dim, open floor of the dancing hall.

Here, covered lanterns cast everything in gauzy shades of blue, edged with reds and yellows. Relentless drumbeats and tapping feet resounded off rounded walls of stone, accompanied by manic flutes and a single, sawing fiddle, driving the dancers on and on in tight circles. They spiraled around little islands of piled cushions, where other patrons lounged and drank.

The crowd was a thick, close press; skirts shimmying, costume-bells clinking, and their arms rising to sway when the key notes were struck. Outfits varied wildly: from plain to tasteful to elaborate to near-nonexistent, but every single patron and dancer wore a mask; polished, glittering, and embedded with beads.

Everyone, that is, save Skie. As she edged her way around the throng she caught a lot of odd looks; far more than she had in the halls. Head down, and a hand clutching at her wounded arm, she did her best to slip past the packs of dancers. The chamber was wide and round, curtains of various colors hanging from the wall at intervals. These —as Skie recalled— covered little side-nooks. Picking one at random, she dipped and wriggled inside.

It was common for couples to slip off to these places, but thankfully this little cubby was empty. There were drawers, a mirror, and a few barrels within: a little supply and dressing room for the dancers. It was also a place away from the crowd, to finally stop and take a breath. As she did that, Skie reached down and fumbled at the remaining potion attached to her belt.

Popping the cork, she raised the jar and forced the sticky-sweet liquid down, wincing at the taste, and then sighing with relief when the pain from her burns dissipated. The healing effect relieved the raw soreness at her arm as well. There was still a lot of blood there, though, and she wasn't sure if the wound had fully closed. Gods, she was such a mess; at least the dancing den was poorly lit.

A thought.

Skie turned to the drawer she had been leaning against, and opened it up. As she suspected, there were accessories (bells, bracelets, anklets, hair-ties, masks) and bits of translucent costumery inside, worn by the professional dancers who were always sprinkled throughout the crowd. A strip or two of the colorful gauss would work to bind her wound. She reached for some, and her hand brushed by one of the many masks.

* * *

The hunters pushed the curtain aside and stalked their way into the dance hall, side by side and eyes sweeping ahead. The man had his sword sheathed, for now, his hand resting on the hilt. The woman had put her dagger away as well, but that was far from her favored weapon. Her hands hung ready at her sides (and near the pouch where she doubtless kept her spell components), fingers flexing.

They ignored the odd looks that some of the dancers gave them, and began their search, the woman slightly in the lead (there was a faint glow about her, difficult to see in the dimness of the hall, but there: arcane protections.) They wound their way through the press, approaching the nearest curtain-covered doorway, and when they reached it the woman took the fabric between her fingers, silent and delicate…

…and then yanked it aside, the man shouldering by right as she did, gripping his sword-hilt. A swift search, while the woman kept her back to her partner and watched the dance, and then the man slipped out of the cubby, and they moved on. They followed the wall, found the next hiding spot, and repeated the search; the woman yanking the curtain and the man plunging in. This time there was a shriek of surprise and fear from the other side of the veil.

A breath or two later and the man backed out, turning to his partner with a grin and a shake of his head. The woman let the curtain fall back into place, much to the relief of the tousled, half-naked couple that they had disturbed. Without pause, and still wearing mild, tight grins, the hunters continued their search.

They neared a third backroom, but the woman stopped, tapping her partner's shoulder and looking elsewhere. There was a pile of cushions nearby, resting against the wall, and mixed in with the bright reds and purples of the silken pillows was a hint of dull but distinctive gray: the hem of Skie Silvershield's enchanted cloak, almost buried. Almost hidden.

Side-by-side, slow and easy, the hunters approached the hiding spot, fanning out slightly and weaving their way past the jostling arms and swaying bodies of the dancers. Once they were just a couple of strides away the man slipped his sword from its sheath, oblivious to the gasps and murmurs that rippled through the crowd nearby, many halting and a few backing away.

The dance around the hunters didn't halt completely, however. Some of the crowd remained oblivious, and one dancer —barefoot and clad in billowing strips of gossamer and a mask that was studded with false moonstones— even shimmied closer to the assassin.

Moments ago, a little voice had been nattering on and on to Skie. _'_ _He'll sense you coming!'_ it kept screaming. _'_ _Just like he did before! They'll see you! They'll notice! This is crazy! This is crazy!'_ But, as she had swayed and danced the last few steps towards Mr. Goldsworth, Skie had managed to silence that voice. To shut it out. To focus her gaze on the back of the man who had stabbed her father, thinking of nothing and simply _moving._

The streamers of gauze that had been hanging off of Skie's right arm fell away, revealing the dagger they had been covering, and then the blade flashed forward in an arc and sunk, hilt-deep, into the back of the assassin's neck.

A gurgling hack came from Mr. Goldsworth as his mouth fell open, his swordarm rising for a blind, backwards stab. With a yelp Skie shifted, eyes wide as the tip of the assassin's sword whistled by her cheek. Her movements and his thrashing ripped her dagger free of Mr. Goldsworth's throat, a torrent of hot blood flowing across Skie's hand.

Mrs. Goldsworth had whirled to face them, the satisfied grin she had worn replaced by wide-eyed terror. "Slyth!" she shouted,

Skie wriggled and held on, trying to keep the man (who had now reached up and pressed a hand against his bleeding neck) between them like a shield ( _Gods! Gods! Gods!_ She had _no_ idea what to do now! Hadn't really thought she'd make it this far…), and Mrs Goldsworth followed, her eyes sharpening on Skie and her fingers curling. Her fingernails were long and sharp.

The sword had slumped down beside Mr. Goldsworth now, his motions growing less coordinated. Then he made a sound a bit between a grunt and a choke and Skie caught a heavy elbow to the gut. She doubled over and let go of the assassin, stumbling back, but managed to straighten enough to _shove_ Mr. Goldsworth (or Slyth or whatever his name was) at his wife, swiveling on her heel.

All around them panic had broken out, shrill screams rising and the music and dance sputtering to a halt. Skie found herself jostled and shoved as she tried to weave around the packed bodies and away from the Goldsworths. People were pushing and stumbling over each other now, surging for the exit and away from the blood. Arms flailed, legs kicked, and Skie twisted every-which-way she could to keep going _forward_ , slipping around the people, under them, and even frog-hopping over someone who had stumbled and fallen. She focused on the rustling curtain and the doorway up ahead, weaving and climbing.

"Mage!" someone was shouting behind her.

"That's an evocation!"

And then the screams rose in pitch, accompanied by a great rush of wind. The temperature in the hall instantly went from cloying-hot to _arctic_ , frost stinging Skie's bare shoulders as she ducked and dove and shoved and ran - ran - _ran!_

She did _not_ look back! Did _not_ think about why some of the screams were being cut short, or how the crackling sound that accompanied the blast of cold was sweeping towards her. The curtain was right there! A shove and she was through, bare feet patting down the stone hallway, running for her life once more.

There was a bend in the hall up ahead, and Skie raced for it, but she was _far_ from there when she heard Mrs. Goldsworth's voice ring out behind her, chanting those nonsense words of hers. _Will she NEVER run out of spells?!_

Skie turned and dove for the nearest curtain, slipping through and rolling across the carpet. A breath later something bright streaked by and shook the fabric, accompanied by a resonant _crack._

Crouching, with her back pressed against a bedpost, Skie glanced around. Seemed she had ended up in an unoccupied bedroom. With only one doorway. A dead end! And why, in the name of all the gods, were there _no_ fucking doors anywhere in this place?!

She searched for something to barricade the doorway with, but everything looked to be too heavy or to light, and the closest thing she found to a weapon, groping around, was a silver pitcher. With that in one hand and her dagger (at least she still had _that_ ) in the other, she knelt and watched the curtain, shifting a bit and waiting to spring.

Shifting and shivering, that is. Suddenly the plan to ditch her sturdy traveling clothes for a mask and some strips of gauss seemed very silly. _Gods. I_ _'_ _m going to die dressed as a brothel dancer._ Her mother would have her raised from the dead just to kill her herself if she...if she...

Well, at least she'd managed to take one of the assassins down.

Those thoughts and worries raced through her mind as the curtain remained shut, sounds echoing from beyond: steel rattling and voices chanting and shouting. There were crackles too, and hisses, and then something that sounded like a rush of flame. _Hm?_ The guards were fighting back? But could they possible stand up to Mrs. Goldsworth?

Skie shook her head. Maybe the guards would at least bloody her. Provide an opening. Take down a magical protection and absorb her last lightning bolt. _Yeah_. Skie tightened her grip and glared ahead, tilting the pitcher back and readying a throw.

The fighting died away. There were a few footsteps outside, then silence. Nothing happened. Time dragged by. Skie let out a careful, silent breath, realizing that she had been holding it a very long time.

Then the curtain shook and flew open with a violent yank, and Skie jumped, yelped, and hurled the pitcher. There was a flash and a _clang_ as it was batted aside and bounced off the nearby wall, and the person who had deflected it stepped forward, a sword in each hand.

Ashura Adrian was dressed in her usual chainmail, and wore her usual, stony expression. She was also splattered in blood. As usual. She cocked her head, curious, eyes narrow.

_Oh! The mask!_ Skie peeled it up and over her brow. "H-hi," she stammered.

Ashura straightened, and her glare became a relieved smile. "Skie!" she shouted. "You're alive!"


	88. Rest While You Can

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein our heroes get a pause for breath

_ "A Deathbringer has no family. Not in his heart. His one, full, and sole commitment must go into the swing of his blade."  _ -Deathstalker Krashus D'ai, instructing a band of recruits

* * *

The Harbormaster's staff had laid out an impressive feast, especially considering the odd hour and short notice. Trays of tin lined the long table, piled high with steaming sausage, beds of diced tubers, and bowls of dill-speckled cabbage and fruit jelly. There were cups of tea on offer as well, which had Imoen thinking that this all might be the morningfeast that the folks here usually whipped up, just served an hour or so earlier than normal.

Shar-Teel was the only one to dig into the meal with any gusto, hacking off hunks of sausage and stuffing her face with them while she gulped down cups of wine (she'd asked for drink, and the staff had obliged.) The rest of the guests just fiddled with their forks, stared at their plates, or politely sipped their tea. Imoen certainly didn't have much of an appetite.

The Harbormaster, a sturdy halfling sailor with a weatherbeaten complexion, watched them from across the table, his face lined with concern. "Eltan," he eventually called. "You should eat."

The grand duke just glared at his plate. "If I can hold it down."

"Try," the Harbormaster suggested. "Remember that advice you gave one of your people, that night before the ugly business on Mintarn? 'Even if it tastes like ashes,' I remember you saying, 'persevere, and spoon it down.'"

"Hm. Yes." Taking that advice, Eltan speared a bit of potato. He gave it a long, uncertain look though. It barely seemed like he could lift the fork.

"You'll need all the strength you can muster. The city's turned upside down."

Imoen figured she ought to take the halfling's words to heart as well, even if her stomach was tight and cold, so she attempted to pick at her plate. How long had it been since she'd last eaten, anyways?

And strength. _Ugh_. Yeah. That was something she felt rather short on, now that they had finally stopped to sit and take a breath.

Garrick had hummed his healing song over the wound at her brow, and Xan had helped her cover it with a bandage, but it still stung whenever her face so much as twitched. That was just an annoyance compared to the rawness and pain in her upper chest, though. Felt like one wrong move might open the wound all over again.

Xan sat beside her, and — _no surprise_ — he had yet to touch his plate. He was looking at her too, weary and disheveled. Imoen turned to fully face him, with her one good eye, and tried to chew her food and give him a reassuring smile at the same time. _Munch - smile - munch - gulp – swallow – smile._

Xan gave her a slight shake of his head. "I thought you were…" he whispered "…and then you leapt from that tower…"

"Ack. Yeah," Imoen whispered back. "Sorry 'bout that." She contemplated adding a _'No harm done'_ or an _'All's well that ends well,'_ but given the circumstances that didn't feel right. All wasn't well. So instead she just reached over, found Xan's slender fingers, and gave his hand a squeeze.

The Harbormaster and Eltan were still speaking. "…if I had known what you were going through…" the halfling apologized. “Just figured it was the usual Fist business. Recovering from the latest battle. If-"

"Don't worry about it," Eltan grunted. "Safer that you never got involved. It seems Commander Dosan has been trying to get rid of everyone who might threaten his rule."

" _Had_ been," Garrick corrected. "He's dead now."

There was a sharp clink from Shar-Teel's side of the table —a fork tapping a plate— and Garrick seemed to tense and suppress a gulp. He was sitting right next to the woman, after all. Then Shar-Teel went back to shoveling her food into her mouth and the tension abated.

"Good then," Elthan muttered. He reached for the edge of the table and tried to push his chair back, but he had barely risen before his arms went shaky. For a moment it looked like he would teeter to the side and bring half the silverwear down with him, but Garrick managed to grab the duke by one bony shoulder, and Moruene's apprentice leapt to grab the other. Together, they steadied the poor old fellow and managed to get his butt back into the chair. It took several long gulps of air for Eltan's breathing to grow steady.

The Harbormaster was standing as well, brow furrowed. "You need rest, friend."

"Seems so," Eltan gritted.

"We'll find you a safe bed. And soup. This feast was probably a bit much.”

Eltan winced. "True. But I need to talk to my soldiers, soon as I have the strength."

"There may be others loyal to Sarevok," Xan put. "And the grand dukes are being targeted by assassins. We must be cautious."

The Harbormaster nodded. "Might be wisest to get you to a ship," he told his friend.

"I'm not leaving my city," Eltan insisted.

"Then at least lay low. I'll send some of my sailors out. See what they can do. And we'll look to…retrieving the remains from the tower. See if something can be done for Moruene. Maybe Grand Duke Belt can work some miracle."

"If he has not been assassinated yet," Xan said, earning a glare from the halfling.

"We'd best get busy before that happens, then," The Harbormaster stated. "Or…I'd best get busy. Me and some of my trusted people will go get the lay of the land. It would probably be wise for you folks to stay out of sight while we do. We've plenty of rooms to put you up in."

There were no objections, even from Eltan. Man of action or not, the poor sod looked like he was about to pass out.

* * *

If the death of her father had affected her, Shar-Teel sure wasn't showing any outward signs. She seemed her usual blustery self as she shoved her way into one of the guest rooms and gave the place a quick inspection.

Having shared inn rooms with the woman a few times, Garrick recognized her usual routine. First she'd circle the room once or twice, checking any corner or closets that that could make for good hiding places, then she'd shrug when all seemed clear, shimmy out of her gear and then her clothes, and be under the sheets and nodding off within minutes. It was an ability that you just had to admire: being able to plop down in almost any location and nap like a wolf. In all of Garrick's travels he'd never really mastered that. He was just too light of a sleeper.

The guest bedroom was tiny, with the character of a cramped ship's cabin, so Shar-Teel's inspection went quickly enough. Garrick gave the one bed an incredulous look while the woman set her things down. There had always been at least two beds, the times they'd been forced to room together before. _Will I be sleeping on the rug? Or get murdered in my sleep?_

"Looks cozy," Shar-Teel grunted, throwing back the sheets and beginning to unbuckle her armor. As she did that Garrick eased around her and over to the room's one roughewn chair and desk, turning his back and siting down. "And don't be a coward," Shar-Teel added. "I'll leave you some space. Just don't hog the blanket."

"Thanks. Don't think I can sleep yet, though." There was a significant amount of sunlight peeking in through the curtains, and after the events of the last night Garrick's mind was still racing. He rummaged through the bag that he carried at his hip and found his leatherbound journal, along with his ink pot.

Behind him there was a lot clinking and rustling. "Whatever," Shar-Teel muttered. A creak/thump followed: the sound of her flopping onto the bed. "Smart to get rest where you can, though. From what that pipsqueak said it sounds like the enemy's on the move, and who-in-the-Hells knows what'll come next." There was a little more rustling as she got comfortable, and then she added: "But I'm not your mommy. Put your own damn self to bed."

Ignoring her, Garrick raised the little ink-stick he had been using as a writing implement, twirling it between his fingers. Now that there was a moment to stop and take a breath, it would be good to get the events of the past few days down on paper. Jot down all the details, still fresh in his mind. That sort of thing.

Slowly, in fits and starts, Garrick began to scrawl. There was quite a bit that he did not know, of course. They had been separated before, and here they were scattered again. Hopefully, when everything was over, he'd be able to get more of the full story from Ashura. If she was still alive, that is. _Ulp._

Garrick bit the non-stained end of his pen. Hmm. Of course, if the coup attempt they had stumbled upon really _did_ succeed…well then it would be even more important for him to get to Berdusk with his journal, wouldn't it? Find a printer fast as he could and get the story out there about the Tyrant of Baldur's Gate and his brutal rise. Even if their heroic efforts to stop him-

Again the pen twirled over a mostly blank page. Shar-Teel's breaths were slow and even now. She had dosed off long ago.

_ 'Heroic efforts.'  _ Those words didn't quite feel right, what with all the fires and dead bodies they'd left back at the Flaming Fist compound. They were wanted criminals now, and had basically gone to _war_ with the local law.

Well, it had all been a tragic mistake, hadn't it? (Tentatively, Garrick began to scrawl again.) _Yeah_. A tragic mistake. There was a wonderfully wrenching scene at the end of the first canto of an epic poem Garrick had once read, where the heroine of the saga —a paladin— discovered that she had just been tricked into slaying her own order. The next canto began with the fallen heroine being freed from prison by her unlike drow squire (they had, of course, avoided murdering any of the jailers…) so that they could search for the true villains and find redemption. Sadly, as Garrick recalled, that particular saga had gone famously unfinished.

Well, he was determined to see _this_ story to the end! (Provided he survived. Urm…best not to think about that.) And make it just as compelling and romantic as all those other heroic tales! There _was_ an evil knight in baroque armor seeking their deaths, after all. How can you not squeeze some romance out of that?

Behind him, Garrick's new roommate shifted a bit beneath the sheets, and then farted in her sleep.

_ Hm. Yes. Very romantic.  _ Again Garrick twirled his pen, having still gone some time without writing anything more.

Fallen paladins searching for redemption? That wasn't really this story at all, was it? This was…this was…

…the story of the Bhaalspawn, wasn't it? It belonged to them. Beings of death. And beings of divinity, able to shape the Realms in ways mortals cannot. This was the story of three of them (apparently) all converging in one city and bringing chaos and destruction, willingly or no, wherever they go.

_ Yeah. Not a tale of heroes at all.  _ Again Garrick whetted his pen, and bent over his journal. The next round of scratching went faster.

* * *

"Whew," Imoen exclaimed, snapping her spellbook shut. "All the symbols are just sort of running and warbling together now. That's the point where it's best to stop, right?"

Xan nodded. He was perched upon the edge of the bed with his own book in his lap, though he had closed it long ago (not for being a quick study, but because he was simply far too tired. Apparently Imoen had learned that same lesson.) "I should think so," he said. "You may find it easier to hold the forms in your mind after a good night's sleep." He had suggested that she go to bed as soon as they had been shown the room, but Imoen had insisted on taking to the desk and her book instead. Beyond the curtains the world was growing bright.

"Nah. I'm still not sleepy. And I think I've got all the magic stuffs straight enough in my noggin." Putting her book away, Imoen stood, straightened her shirt out, and crossed the handful of steps between them. The bed wobbled a bit as she plopped down.

Xan reached out, tentative and gentle (there was this irrational fear that he could not shake; that she might dissipate at his touch, like a ghost), and placed a hand on Imoen's opposite shoulder. The shoulder, and the young human woman attached to it, were blessedly solid.

Imoen was not careful or gentle at all: her arm snaked around his waist and she collapsed against him, making him wobble a bit before steadying. "Oof!" she said with a giggle. Eventually she added: "I'm too jittery to sleep. You know that feeling?" Before he could answer she looked off and continued. "And…well, I think I actually slept a real long time after I…" Reaching up, she placed a hand on her chest, covering the torn, darkly stained hole where the sword had gone through. Xan had seen the wound earlier, when they had cleaned and bandaged the spot: raw, red, and scabbed shut. "It was like I went into some sort of coma. And when I woke up, well…guess I was pretty dern well-rested."

An odd and chilling thought occurred to Xan. "That appeared to be a mortal wound that you suffered. I was sure that you were lost. Did it…did it perhaps..?"

"Did I die? Dunno. Think I read somewhere that Bhaal's most powerful Deathstalkers could come back from the dead under the right circumstances. And it did feel really cold. And…" A little shake of her head. "But the specter didn't say I was dead. Said I had the power to heal myself. You've seen how Shura heals, right? Yanking life out of her enemies. Think I did something like that." She let out a nervous breath. "The power of a god, huh? All a lot to take in." She suppressed a shiver, and Xan moved his arm, finding a more full and secure grip.

"You seem the same as always to me," he replied, adding a squeeze and hoping that counted for comforting words. He had never been quite sure about those.

"Good. We'll get through this. Just a little to go, huh? We see what the big spiky guy has planned, and then stop him."

"Uhm." That did not seem like _'a little'_ at all, to Xan. "Yes," he said, with absolutely no conviction.

She plowed right past that. "And then you'll have truly done what you left yer home to do, against all odds! Bet the elves'll be in for a shock when you tell them the full story, huh?"

"I had not given that much thought." He paused. "You know," Xan mused, "there would be no reason, should I start out for Evereska, for you to not…join me."

"Oh!" There was a smile in her voice. "Hm. The great secret vale of the sun and moon elves? That's definitely on my checklist of sights to see in the big wide world!" A little laugh. "Dunno if Ashura would be interested though."

Xan frowned at the thought of that, and she probably felt him stiffen, since she added: "Can't leave her behind, I'm afraid. She'd be lost without me. And I know you don't exactly, urm, like her and all…"

"I respect her," Xan hastened to say. "She is an…impressive warrior. She simply makes me wary, at times." He was wary around all warriors in these barbarous lands, in truth. Especially the ones whose blades seemed to go flying about with little thought or provocation.

"Guess she has that effect on people. To me she'll always be the one who stood guard with her wooden sword, back when I used to get night terrors."

"A protective older sister?"

"Suppose so. Even though, for all we know, I'm the older one. Was always shorter though. And I always remember Shura with the wooden sword."

A silence lulled between them after that, and eventually Imoen scooted and then leaned back, dragging him with her down across the sheets. Xan turned slightly, and found that Imoen's uncovered eye was shimmering a bit in the morning light. A blink, and a tear tracked down her cheek.

Was it because she was thinking of home? Of course, the poor girl had countless reasons for tears, didn't she? Xan found that his vision was a bit murky as well, and there was a tightness in his chest. Not knowing what else to say, he simply cupped a hand against the back of her head and pressed his forehead to hers. She was warm against his touch; if she had truly died and come back, there were no signs now.

Warm and solid. He closed his eyes and held on.

—

When he awakened he found that the cracks of light behind the curtain had brightened further, and Imoen was gone.

Xan's blood ran cold. He rolled over to look from one side of the bed, then to the other. Nowhere. Hands fumbling –panicked– against the sheets, he shot up to a sitting position.

Something rustled and crinkled against his thigh. A piece of parchment, he realized, snatching it up and staring with bleary eyes. The letter must have been resting on his chest as he slept.

Slept. He had been so exhausted that he must have lost consciousness, splayed out across the bedsheets with Imoen. Or had that been a…a dream?

Holding the parchment up before him, Xan blinked a few times until the big blocks of letters resolved into something legible. He recognized the handwriting for Imoen's, just like the spells she had copied from him into her book. The letters were compact and legible, with a slight rightward slant and bubble-like circles or diamonds where most people would put dots or periods.

_ 'Xan, _

_ Please don't worry. I couldn't sit around all day, so I went out for a bit to see if there was a way to track down A and the rest of the gang (I'm just using initials in case this letter falls into enemy hands. Come to think on it, we should probably come up with a good super-secret code for name-dropping and stuff.) _

_ Anyways, just thought I'd make myself useful and do a little reconnaissance. Maybe make sure we're fully stocked up on everything too. I checked your spell pouch and it looks like you need more dried snake's tongue, rose petals, and tree gum with eyelashes. I might stop by Halbazzer's while I'm out. _

_ But DON'T worry! I found myself some plain sailor's clothes, along with a hooded cloak. I won't be parading around the city in pink or purple or showing off my bow or any of that. I'm incognito. And I've got my inviso spell ready. AND that spiffy ring (thanks for that.) So there's no need to worry. So please don't. _

_ Ugh. I just know that you'll worry anyways. Well, hopefully I'll be back before you even wake up, so there'll be no need. But if I'm not, DON'T WORRY! _

_ -I' _

Biting his lip, Xan fidgeted with the piece of parchment, re-read it a few times, and tried - tried - _tried_ to follow Imoen's advice.

* * *

Ashura came awake flailing, kicking at the sheets and clawing at the air. They were coming! She wriggled until her back pressed against the headboard of the bed. They were coming with the pliers!

But there was no one else in the dimly lit room. And there were no manacles on her wrists, either. She blinked a few times, squinching her eyes tightly shut, and fought to catch her breath.

No manacles, no chains, and no dungeon walls. Instead, brightly colored silk decorated this place from floor to ceiling; a small, gaudy bedroom. The place practically stank of perfume and incense, though that didn't quite overpower…

Wrinkling her nose, Ashura lifted an arm and sniffed. _Gods!_ She really needed a bath. Some fresh clothes too. She had collapsed on the bed completely dressed, her armor left in a pile on the floor.

_ Ugh. Yeah.  _ As she recalled, she had laid down with a racing mind and aches all over her body, assuming that she wouldn't be able to sleep after everything that had happened. She must have just blacked out after that.

There was a cough from somewhere beyond the silken curtain that served as the bedroom's door. "Ahem."

Ashura winced as she turned towards the voice. Her neck was stiff. _Everything_ was stiff. Sore too. There were some spots on her back that felt especially tender. "Coran?" she asked. Sounded like his cough. It had been his voice that had woken her too, she realized.

"Indeed," the elf replied from the other side. "Apologies for disturbing your beauty rest."

"Don't worry about it. Come in here."

The curtain shifted and Coran stepped in, dressed in his usual flamboyant purples. His eyes were strangely downcast; he seemed almost shy.

"How long was I out?"

"A while. It's around the second bell of the afternoon."

"Oh. Damn." Again, Ashura rubbed her face, scooting to the edge of the bed and fumbling for the glass decanter on the nightstand. Coran rushed in to help her pour a cup of water, and she gulped it down in a few quick chugs.

"I've been poking my head above ground," Coran said as she drank. "Haven't seen any sign of Imoen, I'm afraid. Though everyone's talking like the folks who smashed up the Flaming Fist fort all got away. I suppose that's a good sign."

"Yeah."

"And everyone's talking about Grand Duke Silvershield's death. At the hands of Shadow Thief assassins, apparently."

"Of course."

"And it seems that all the well-to-dos are pouring into the Ducal Palace."

Ashura grunted. "We'll need to go there." She looked over to her armor. Didn't exactly feel like leaping up and strapping it on just yet. "Tamoko said that there'd be some sort of election. Sarevok might be-"

A voice from behind the curtain interrupted her: "There is still time." Tamoko shouldered her way into the bedroom. "Enough for preparations. I have put an ear to the ground, much like your elf, and it seems that the landed are still assembling for the election. And bickering. The remaining grand dukes were caught flatfooted by last night's events, and will delay if they can."

"Well good," Ashura muttered. "I'll at least have time for a bath." She stood and straightened, again wincing.

"Viconia's about," Coran put in. "Might want to have her see to your injuries."

"Eh." Didn't feel like she was bleeding anywhere. Just needed to stretch. Although…those _really_ sore spots were where the hot irons had been pressed, weren't they?

"I shall inform you when the election grows immanent," Tamoko stated curtly, turning and taking her leave. She hadn't offered healing, though that was likely for the best.

"Where's Skie?" Ashura asked.

"Sleeping in the next chamber over."

"Good." Best to let her sleep. They'd need to come up with a plan soon though, and, being one of the city's 'well-to-dos,' Skie would probably be their best bet into the palace. But for now: a bath (Ashura was desperate to get rid of the grime that had accumulated in that damn dungeon), and then maybe a meal. Oh, and: "Hey Coran? Can you do me a favor?"

"What is your bidding?" He smirked.

She fished a pair of silver pieces from her pouch. "Is there a tailor's shop nearby? Up top."

"I can find one. Sure."

"Just some simple leggings and a shirt. Warm wools." She pressed the coins into his hand. "And no flamboyant purples or anything." Suddenly, sending Coran out to scrounge up clothes seemed like a terrible idea. He _would_ dress her up in something gaudy, given half the chance, wouldn't he?

"Of course." He gave her a long look. "And…I'm sorry we couldn't come to your rescue sooner."

"Eh." She shrugged. "We didn't get hanged. We're muddling through this."

"Are you?" Damn. He seemed genuinely concerned.

She met his eyes. "Yeah. Absolutely." And she meant it. Time to get moving.

* * *

Going through his spell book. Yes. That would help pass the time. Then perhaps he could…do another accounting of his reagents? Clean his sword? And after that…well, he would just have to think of something else to fiddle with.

Knuckles tense, Xan opened the book in his lap, took a moment to relax his breathing, and let his gaze linger, unfocused, over the diagram depicting the forms and barriers of self-deception (a key element that many basic charms harnessed and built upon.) Next came the runes of-

It was about then that the door burst open and Imoen came tromping in across the threshold, her plain brown cloak damp and dusted a bit with snow. She was hugging a tall basket to her chest, with a leather satchel slung over her shoulder. Scooting into the bedroom and using her heel to nudge the door shut behind her, she gave Xan a mildly guilty look. "Oh. Urm. So yer awake," she said. "I was kind of hoping…"

"You mentioned that hope in the letter, yes." He felt this sudden urge to toss the book aside, leap to his feet, rush over and embrace her. Instead (since he did not want to crush whatever groceries she carried or alarm her with a sudden outburst like that), Xan clenched the hidebound covers tight between his fingers, forced himself to remain seated, and gave the girl the widest smile he had ever given anyone in his life.

* * *

_ Ah!  _ After the bath she felt almost human again!

Rubbing a cloth against her soggy hair, Ashura made her way back to the boarding rooms, dressed in the stiff new wools that Coran had been nice enough to snag for her. To her surprise he'd picked out grays and blacks: comfortable trousers, a long sleeved, formfitting undershirt, and a lightweight blouse to go over that. She also wore her swordbelt and her blades, of course.

The Undercellars were quiet and nearly empty now, either because it was midafternoon, or because most of the usual patrons were barricading themselves in their estates after the events of last night. Entering the suite they had rented, she looked from one draped doorway to the next. Probably a good idea to check on Skie, if she was still in the room Coran had indicated. The poor girl had broken down shortly after they found her; blood-splattered, huddled against a wall, and for some reason dressed in an absurd outfit of transparent silk. Seemed that, like most of them, Skie had had one Abyss-colliding-with-all-the-Nine-Hells-and-a-few-other-lower-planes-on-top-of-that sort of a night.

A curtain rustled before Ashura could approach any of the rooms, and Tamoko slipped out, fully kitted in her enameled black plate. The Kara-Turan woman stepped towards Ashura, inclining her head as she neared. "I must depart now," she stated plain.

"Oh?" Ashura asked.

"You have all you need now, for the coming trials. And-"

"You don't want to be there,” Ashura realized. “When we attack."

A conceding nod. "Correct." Tamoko glanced back, in the direction of Skie's room. "Unfortunate that we did not stop the assassins until they had taken one of their targets, but the Silvershield girl shall prove useful. A key into the palace. And she will know the compromised courtiers by sight."

"Yeah. Was just about to speak with her."

"Then, as I said, there is no further need for me." As the priestess approached and walked by, Ashura's hand drifted to her longsword's hilt, just in case. Once Tamoko had passed and reached the drape that led out of the suite (a few paces out of immediate sword-range), she turned, and for a moment she simply gave Ashura a pondering look. Then she spoke again:

"Since I have assisted you, perhaps you could consider a favor in return." She paused, and when Ashura just inclined her head slightly in response, Tamoko went on. "Once the coup has been averted, Sarevok will retreat. When this occurs, I ask that you simply _consider_ letting him go. Consider walking away from this ugly business, and going on with your life, rather than hunting your brother across Faerun." Her words were even more measured than usual, and her stance was tense. No doubt she was ready to send a wall of fire billowing up to block the doorway and beat a hasty retreat at any moment.

"That 'brother' sent assassins to _hunt_ me," Ashura replied, her jaw tightening. "He cut my father down because he was in the way-"

"How many have you cut down because they happened into your path? I saw you hurl Cythandria off the tower without a thought."

"I'm not going to argue the difference. Maybe there isn't one. You've watched me, right? You know me. So you probably know what I'll do if Sarevok flees." The thought seemed kind of absurd and abstract anyway. She remembered that cocksure, towering warrior she had sparred with when she was young. And later: the man who had fended her fury off, laughing, with only a quarterstaff.

Tamoko glared. "I do. From what I have seen you are as foolish and hardheaded as he. With the divinity that sleeps in your veins you have the power to reshape the world in ways few of us can. You can _choose_ , yet the choice you make is to look to the ground and ram ahead along the obvious course." There was more emotion in the priestess's voice than Ashura had ever heard. A swell of anger.

Then the priestess took a long breath, and some of the tension lifted. "I should never have asked," she sighed.

Conscious and deliberate, Ashura made her hands drift away from the hilts of her swords. "It's alright. I…appreciate your advice." _Even if I won't follow it._ "'You cannot hope to chop down the world,' right? I'll think on it."

They shared a long look. "Know that you always have a choice." And with that Tamoko turned and slipped by the curtain, vanishing from sight.

As soon as the priestess was gone a bright red presence drifted into the edge of Ashura's vision, robes whispering. "She will betray you, of course," Edwin stated.

Ashura glanced at him, then back to the swishing curtain. "Eh," she grunted, noncommittal. "Does the word 'betrayal' even apply when there was no loyalty in the first place?"

"I suppose not. Good to be able to recognize a tenuous alliance." He took her hand and shoved a small metal object between her fingers. "You will borrow this," he commanded.

Ashura looked down at the thick little ring, pink on the outer edges and a ruby color along the center. It was decorated with a little red sunburst. "Uh. Another ring? Are we getting married?"

That earned her a genuinely confused look from Edwin, albeit brief. Then he realized. "Ah, yes. The courtship rituals of this barbarous region. No, I am merely attempting to protect my investments. Especially after all you have put me through. You are only to _borrow_ this, until this business is concluded, with your hide intact (and hopefully unburnt.)"

"How romantic."

He rolled his eyes.

She slipped the ring on. "Thanks, though. I appreciate it."

He bristled. "Simply remember that you _owe_ me, and act accordingly when the time comes."

"Sure. So long as you fight with us until Sarevok's defeated." Not like she could afford to think longer term than that.

"You may trust me not to shirk any bargains we make. Although, it pays to be more cautious when placing enchanted rings of unknown origin on one's fingers. They could be cursed in any number of ways. One who has earned the right to wear red would never make such a mistake."

She glared.

"It is _not_ cursed, of course. As I stated, you may trust me. I am simply chastising you for your reckless incaution."

Still glaring, she slipped the ring off of her finger, resisted the urge to throw it in his face, and then put it back on. Cursed items would not allow you to remove them, supposedly (and she had a little experience with that.) "Thanks, then."

"If you truly wish to display your gratitude for all that I have done," he gestured towards the curtain of her bedroom, "this appears to be the perfect setting."

"How romantic," she repeated. "I'm going to go check on Skie." With that she turned away and started off.

"Then I suppose I shall see what entertainments this glorified basement has to offer while we wait."

"Knock yourself out."

* * *

The bed in the grand suit at the top of the Three Old Kegs Inn sat unoccupied this eve, its blankets undisturbed. Instead, Sarevok Anchev sat cross-legged on the carpet beside it, clad in only a breachcloth. A single candle burned before him, The Sword of Chaos rested at his side, and a bed of coals glowed in the hearthfire at his back, warming his bare skin well enough. He had toyed with the notion of sleep, but there was too much disquiet in his blood for him to yet rest. That, and he simply could not shake the feeling that something was coming.

Thus, it came as no surprise when a great force thudded against the bedroom door, the wooden latch rattling. _Yes. No sleep tonight._ Calm and swift, Sarevok snatched the crossguard of his sword and shot to his feet.

The second blow against the door sent splinters flying, and the third snapped the latch. The door came crashing inward on its hinges, the room flooded with light, and Sarevok drifted a few steps back into the shadows, keeping out of a direct line with the door should crossbow bolts come flying in.

No bolts; instead an armored man thundered through the doorway, a longblade raised and clutched in both hands as his eyes swept the room. The intruder stopped far out of Sarevok's reach, and their eyes locked.

The man was a stranger, with a weathered face, a shaved head, and a distinctive braided beard that dangled from his chin. He wore some sort of banded armor with quilted padding over the arms, and stamped to the breast was — _Ah. That explains it._

Stamped to the breast of the armor was the white-on-orange crest of the Iron Throne.

"Sarevok Anchev," the intruder hissed. His accent was thickly Sembian. Seemed he was one of those fools who wished to banter before the inevitable, too.

"Yes?"

"You've much to answer for. You will drop that ridiculous sword and come with me for questioning. Your men below have already surrendered to my comrades." He was referring to the little retinue of guards and servants that had been housed in the lower rooms; men brought along for appearance more than anything. When Sarevok rode through the gates of the Ducal Palace in the morning it would seem odd if he arrived alone.

"Oh? I will?" Sarevok had his sword raised in a high guard now. A quick lunge and sweeping motion would not be enough to strike the Sembian, but the fool would try to block, and then Sarevok would be able to bat his sword aside. The next step from there would be a killing blow.

"If you know what's good for you," the Sembian snarled, pointing with his sword but not yet advancing. From his perspective he likely thought that he had just surprised a half-naked merchant prince in his bedroom. The fool had no idea what Sarevok's greatsword was, or what he was capable of doing with it.

Of course, it would not be wise to give the Sembian —who looked to be an experienced enough warrior— time to assess the situation; to get a good, clear look at Sarevok's muscles, scars, tattoos, or poise. Careful not to show any outward signs, Sarevok silently drew in a long intake of breath and prepared to spring.

"I will allow you the dignity of-" the Sembian began to add, but before he could finish the sentence _or_ Sarevok could strike, they were interrupted by a flash of amber light that settled like a halo around the intruder's head. "-of ddrr" the man slurred, his arms going limp at his sides and his bastard sword scraping the floor. "Ddddrrree…" A lulled look had come over him, empty eyes aglow as his body went slack.

Some form of enchantment, by Sarevok's guess. He did not wait to search for the source, or give his thanks, instead tilting his greatsword back and dashing forward, aiming to cleave the intruder's befuddled skull in two.

"Stop!" a voice hissed from the darkness, just as Sarevok began to swing. The voice of Winski Perorate. On reflex, as he had done many times during his training, Sarevok obeyed, his sword halting in mid-flight.

"This man might prove useful," Perorate added, still invisible somewhere in the dimness. "And he is under my sway."

"Indeed?" Sarevok lowered his sword.

The Sembian spoke in a rattling, listless voice: "Indeed I am." His posture straightened, the glow lingering in his blank eyes, and then he gave Sarevok a slight bow.

"His name is…Rahvin, it seems." Winski spoke slowly. Seemed he was delving into the mind of his new puppet. "He was sent here…at the behest of Sfena herself, to investigate the numerous failures of your little cartel." Rahvin turned around as Winski spoke, shutting the door like the handy little servant he had suddenly become. "He and his operatives seem to have been hunting for you."

"Ah," Sarevok said. "To be expected. And I suppose we could send them hunting after someone else instead?"

"Precisely." The old Rashemi finally shimmered into visibility, dressed in his usual near-rags, arms crossed at his chest. "The spell of _domination_ will last quite some time, and I can make him act convincing enough to command his subordinates. There is an ogre among them. An interesting lot."

Sarevok chuckled.

"What say we send them hunting after Tamoko? Rahvin's underlings can be told that she is the one responsible for the chaos in their organization."

Despite himself, Sarevok found his eyes narrowing on his old master. This was one of Perorate's tests, wasn't it? In his training, the old man had emphasized many times that a Deathbringer must have no attachments. A family would inevitably be used against you by your enemies, and worry for others would hold back the full swing of your blade. "My sister is far more of a threat," Sarevok said eventually. "And our greatest priority at the moment is the election."

"Tamoko must be dealt with."

"Everyone _will_ be dealt with," Sarevok snarled. "Look how many have fallen so far! There's barely any left to stand in my way, and tomorrow morning they shall all be in one place."

Winski inclined his head. "It is your decision."

Sarevok grunted. _'How many have fallen so far.'_ Those words certainly rang true. He was fast running out of enemies _and_ allies. Though perhaps that was how it was meant to be. _'A Deathbringer has no family'_ indeed, for he must view everyone as expendable.

Turning, he pondered what to do with this new slave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Just a few more chapters to go, and then an epilogue.
> 
> The 'epic saga' that Garrick muses about is a reference to one of the more popular Neverwinter Nights mods, which I believe was called Twilight. It was a lot of fun: you play a paladin but get a decent amount of roleplaying options. There's a sequel called Midnight, but sadly the third mod in the planned trilogy (Dawn) was never completed, as far as I know.


	89. Our Lady of Murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Garrick gets booed for singing the theme from Skyrim.

_"If you are looking for a tale of heroes, friend, you may wish to seek it elsewhere. What can I say? Sometimes, to hunt monsters, other monsters are needed."_ –Garrick Anthras, _Terror of the Sword Coast_

 

* * *

Ashura gave herself a cursory glance in the mirror, making sure that the padded doublet and woolen hose wouldn't bunch up. Next came the armor: chain leggings first, followed by the chainmail coat over that. A spaulder went on one shoulder, then the other, followed by the forearm guards. Then she sat down on the bed to wrestle with her shin guards, strapping them on.

After that she stood and cinched on her swordbelt, an enchanted garment in its own right, which she had taken as a prize after a silly contest with a rival adventuring party. What had that woman's name been? Kirian? What a loudmouth (until that basilisk shut her up.)

Next, Ashura stood and stepped into Nimbul's boots, bending down to lace them firmly in place.

(Nimbul. Her brother. Bhaalspawn…)

She donned her fingerless gloves next, a rush of strength surging through her veins as the enchantment activated, and then she draped her mother's old cloak into place. Viconia had once suggested that she wear the cloak outside in, so as not to invite suspicion with the skull and tears motif. But no. That just wouldn't feel right.

Lastly, Ashura combed her hair a few times, tied it back, and then put on her helmet. One more glance in the mirror, and then she marched out through the curtain, turning to the bedroom beside hers.

"Skie?"

"C-come in." The voice on the other side was soft and raw. Ashura pushed past the curtain.

Skie Silvershield sat before a mirror of her own, dressed in her sturdy leathers and applying some sort of makeup over her swollen eyelids. "I'll be ready in a…in a moment." She looked over to Ashura. "Don't suppose you can do my hair?"

"Do?"

"Help me put it up in a bun. Nothing fancy."

Stepping closer, Ashura shrugged. "Sure."

"I'll need to look presentable," Skie went on, eyes on the mirror, "for the footmen at the palace. And when we make our case to the assembly."

Not entirely true. Really, Skie just had to prove that she was who she was, and they'd let her in. And Ashura was in no mood to 'make a case' to anyone. The moment she spotted Sarevok, her blades were coming out. She didn't say anything along those lines, though.

A holstered shortsword lay across Skie's bed, the blade distinctly triangular. "That's a nice sword," Ashura remarked as she tried to figure out what to do with Skie's hair. "Viconia said it's black adamantine. Nothing sharper."

"You want it?"

"Think I have enough blades. And you're a good fencer. You need a sword."

Skie bit her lip, looking away. "Yeah. I couldn't bring myself to belt it on. Since..."

_Oh. Was that the sword that killed her parents?_ Ashura hadn't made the connection until now. "You don't have to-"

"No. I should." Through the reflection, Skie forced a smile. "Maybe I'll put that sword through the heart of the man who ordered my parents killed. Maybe there'd be some justice in that. And it's the practical thing to do, using the best weapon I can find. Just like you'd do."

Ashura just snorted at that. _I would?_ She thought to say something about how she knew what the girl was going through, but held her tongue. Best not to compare notes on dead fathers. Now was the time to push forward, because if you stop to think…

There. That looked like an appropriate enough bun. "You ready?" Ashura asked.

"Almost." Skie looked down at her little kit of assorted paints. "Just need to pick the right color for my lips."

Ashura was tempted to say something snide, makeup being an alien concept to her and all, but looking over at the mirror she noticed her appearance once again; armor all neatly in place. She had her helmet, and Skie had her makeup. Everyone needed a warface, and a little ritual to don it.

Once the paint was applied, they made their way out to the shared space of the suite. Viconia and Coran were waiting there, both looking put-together and ready for battle themselves: Coran in his green-edged purples, slouching against a wall and twirling one of his knifes, and Viconia in her hood and mask, along with the heavy cloak that concealed her many chakrams and reinforced leathers.

Stepping up to the drow, Ashura gave her a friendly nod. "I appreciate this, by the way," she said in a low voice. "I know you've been dragged through some nasty places recently…"

"True," Viconia replied, "but their lashes were nothing compared to the snake-whips of my people. Unlike the serpents, they left no lasting mark, and the perpetrators are now dead."

"Still. Thanks."

"Of course, _kal'abbil._ After all that has been endured, I look forward to seeing this task of ours through, with the Nightsinger's blessing."

Ashura nodded. "Vengeance."

"Vengeance. This day, may you unravel the schemings of an impotent fool. And sheath your blade in his heart."

Ashura glanced around. "Where's Edwin?"

"Performing a different sort of sheathing, I think. Last we spoke, he left in a huff, muttering something about 'appreciative concubines.'"

Coran giggled, but before he could add anything to the conversation they were interrupted by a cough from Edwin himself, who had just slipped in through the outside curtain. He straightened his robes with a brush of his hands. "I assure you," the Thayan bristled, "that I am quite capable of punctuality."

"Oh?" Viconia cooed. "Your little dalliance ended quickly, then? Did you lack the…stamina for it?"

"You may test my stamina any time you please." Edwin made a gesture towards the general direction of their boarding rooms. "I am more than up for the task, I assure you."

“Ah,” Coran spoke up, using his usual, dramatic tone. “The lovely tradition of pre-battle _celebrations_. To relieve tension.” He looked to Ashura. “And we find ourselves in such a romantic setting. Do you think, dear leader, that we have time for a little-”

"No, we don't." She tapped one of her spaulders. "Do you have any idea how long it takes me to strap all of this on?" Before Coran had a chance to say anything cheeky, Ashura turned and gestured. "Come on. We've got an election to crash."

Her friends fell in line behind her, and together they made their way out of the rental space and down the halls, past the sleeping brothels and the opium dens, and on towards the exit that led out into the sewers. They had a long, complicated, and smelly walk ahead of them, if they intended to pop out onto the street as close to the palace as possible.

They entered the darkness, dank water trickling along beneath the stone walkway. One of Edwin's conjured wisps soon lit their path, and by its light Skie looked at the parchment that they had lifted off Cythandria. "Alright," she announced. "The doppelgangers. There are six of them all told, if I'm reading this right. Masquerading as one lady and five lords." She pursed her lips. "Well, technically Cerk Selebon is a merchant, and Kraesh Nederlok leads a knightly order. And the titles-"

"We just need to know what they look like," Ashura prompted.

"Ah. Okay. Cerk is short and stout. Merchants, you know. He has a sharp little beard and moustache that he always waxes. Pretty distinctive looking. And his house colors are blue and gold. He'll be wearing those prominently."

From there Skie perked up and began to talk faster, describing (in a scatterbrained manner) the house colors, crests, and distinctive features of the six imposters. The impromptu course in heraldry (and highborn gossip –apparently Lord Vergence Dethingeller tended to point his head a certain way to minimize a birthmark, and Sir Kraesh Nederlok had a chronic rash) was enough to make Ashura's head spin, but she tried to commit what she could to memory.

 

* * *

Pockets of mist and feeble patches of snow clung to the stones in the shadow of the great palace, though the wheels of carriages and the tromping of armored horses had done much to break the slush apart. Dawn's light was growing steady over Baldur's Gate, and its best, brightest, and wealthiest were all making their way to the city's crown.

Balduran's old fortress was no glittering jewel, like Castle Waterdeep or the Simbul's palace. Rather, it had been built with practicality in mind: a square, sturdy block of stone that stood at the highest point in the city, dwarfing all the little keeps and manor houses that had grown up at its feet over the years. Walls of grey granite surrounded the palace keep, old as the city itself, and according to legend they had never been breached. Of course, they had never been tested by a truly devastating war, either.

This morning the palace gates were open wide, and there was constant traffic through them. Sarevok's carriage had to pause for a time and wait, eventually wending through an opening and rattling on into the castle courtyard.

Not waiting on the coachman, Sarevok pushed the door open the moment they had come to a halt, his eyes fixed on the palace. A single 'manservant' trailed behind him: Winski Perorate, dressed today in sturdy blacks and shouldering The Sword of Chaos. Sarevok had likewise dressed for the occasion, in a doublet of golden brown marked by the dancing lion that his 'father' had long ago chosen for a coat of arms. A cap of the same color rested on his brow, conveniently covering his tattoos. Doubtful that anyone would recognize the ritual markings of a Deathbringer, but it was best not to invite questions.

Up ahead, the keep was alive with bustle and chatter, clashing voices already spilling out from the open doors. A line of uniformed Fists stood guard out front, and as Sarevok approached them he caught a glimpse of a great figure looming a bit to the side, dressed in plain grey plate and looking as nonchalant as a seven-foot tall man with a massive warhammer could look. Five well-armed men and women lounged beside the big fellow, helmeted and dressed in nondescript scale.

As Sarevok passed by, he and Taurgosz Khosann shared the slightest of nods, then his attention returned on the yawning doorway ahead. Seemed that Sarevok's 'auxiliary' force was in place, just in case there was trouble today. With diminishing resources and allies, it was good to know that he still had some soldiers left, even if Khosann was not quite the massive bruiser that Tazok would have been.

The guards here would not allow mercenaries into the palace proper, but once chaos broke out, Khosann and his soldiers could sweep in easily enough. Between them, the doppelgangers, Slyth and Krystin, and Sarevok himself, the trap was sure to close on the two remaining grand dukes.

So close now, despite some last-minute pushback from the city's rulers. The hardheaded man known simply as Belt was a priest of Tempus, and had loudly rejected the notion of a 'Warduke," and Liia Jannath was a practiced player of political games. Still, Sarevok had spent the past day holding court in a private room in the Three Old Kegs, making (sometimes contradictory) promises to countless nobles, and he was fairly certain that between them and his six iron-clad votes, the election would go his way.

Not necessary, with the chaos that was planned for this morning, but it would lend him legitimacy if the fleeing survivors had witnessed young Lord Anchev being voted in as a grand duke. And then, of course: violence, more chaos, and emergency measures would follow. Power would be consolidated in the usual manner, not so different from the way the four original captains (pirate captains, by some claims) had seized Balduran's fortress in his absence centuries ago, declaring themselves the first 'Council of Four.'

The arguments beyond the palace doors were growing louder. With a deep inhalation of cold winter air, Sarevok strode forward. Quite a din up ahead; they were clearly trying to shout each other down, and it was high time he added his voice. _Ah. Democracy._

 

* * *

The six of them had all managed to pile, cramped and bunched together, into the carriage house. They fiddled, trying to get comfortable, while the Harbormaster's coachman finished with the horses. Moruene's hapless apprentice had made some complaints about elbow-room, and Imoen had suggested that they each find a partner and sit on each other's laps, but Grand Duke Eltan shut them both up with a glare and some terse words:

"Comport yourselves like the professions that you _pretend_ at being. Please." He turned to Xan. "You are the strongest spellcaster here?"

"I believe so," Xan replied with a nod.

"And you've a divination or two available?"

"Of course."

"This carriage is necessary, but it is also a liability. We make ourselves a very large target. I want you to keep an enchanted ear out for any sort of ambush."

"That can be done. Yes."

Eltan gave the rest of them a sweep of his eyes, eventually settling on Imoen. "You. Girl. You're the archer of this little group, right?"

"Indeed I am. Can fling a few spells too."

"Good." Eltan gestured with a sideways tilt of his head. "Go up top with the coachman. And have that bow ready, along with some protective spells, if you have them."

"Yessir." With a little wriggling Imoen rose from her seat, and then pushed through the door, climbing on top of the carriage.

"There," Etlan grunted, shooting Karsa a glare. "More room." Without pause he turned to Garrick, who suddenly felt a strong urge to swallow. "Harpist. Make yourself useful and play us something, while we ride."

_Oh._ Reaching down, Garrick fumbled for his harp case. "At once!" He tried to bite back the reflexive sarcasm he used whenever Ashura barked orders at him. _Courtly manners. Think: 'Courtly manners.'_ Cradling the harp in his arm, he brushed his fingers over the strings, then stopped to ask: "What kind of song would m'lord prefer?"

Eltan waved a dismissive hand. "Something inspiring. What you usually play to ready the troops for battle."

Garrick fought a grin. He was a little out of practice there, since the folks he had spent the last half-year with seemed to prefer debilitating spells and crossbow bolts over rousing tunes. _'Be useful and shoot something!'_ Ashura had yelled at him more than once.

His fingers twirled as he pondered some of the more popular Heartlands marching songs. Eltan would have heard them all a million times, though.

So, instead, Garrick strummed and began to hum out something a bit more obscure, drawing a deep breath as he recalled one of his grandfather's rousing/roaring battle-songs from his opera about the savage north. Deepening his voice and taping his feet (this was the sort of tune that really called for thundering wardrums), Garrick began to sing.

A verse of so in, Eltan interrupted him with a snort. "What is this? Something Norlander's hum while they pillage and gulp down horns of mead?"

With a little cough, Garrick immediately shifted from the sweeping cords to a more staid Heartlander marching song, his voice returning to its usual tenor. _Got to known your audience_.

 

* * *

A crowd had gathered at the foot of the fortress wall, huddled in cloaks and rubbing their hands as they murmured to each other. In addition to the people, countless carriages had been parked both outside and within.

Ignoring the throngs of commoners, Skie led the way, Ashura and the others trailing close behind. A pair of armored guards were stationed at the gate, their red-on-white tabards proclaiming them Flaming Fists, and Ashura's hand instinctively drifted to the hilts of her swords as they approached. The men barely spared the party a glance, however, and they marched by without incident. Seemed there had been a lot of chaotic comings and goings this morning.

Beyond the gate lay a broad courtyard of well-trod soil and dead grass. More people milled about here, most dressed in finer clothing than the folk outside; chattering, attending to horses, or bustling about from one outbuilding to the next. Past the little field loomed the fortress proper, a great stone monolith with open gates. A full line of soldiers waited there, halberds resting against their shoulders. The pair of guards directly in front of the palace door kept their axes crossed together, and their captain stood out in front, distinguished by his plated armor. Skie drew her hood back and strode directly towards the man, and the captain's eyes widened at the sight of her.

"Lady Silvershield," he said in greeting. "Glad to see you. We've been…concerned."

"With good reason!" Skie huffed, her chin held high. "Sir Billias, is it?" He nodded. "After recent events, I've much to discuss with the remaining grand dukes, and I demand an audience."

"Of course. Of course." The halberds parted. "This morning's gathering is open to all of our landed residents, in any case."

With a curt nod, Skie began to push past him.

"I'll have to insist that your entourage wait outside, however," the captain hastened to add.

"Out of the question! My parents were assassinated before my eyes, the night before last, and there have been attempts on my life as well. I go nowhere without my bodyguards."

"We can keep you safe-"

"Truly, Sir Billias? You can? Have you _looked_ at the state of the city? At the fortress of the Flaming Fist, or my family home, or The Seven Suns and the Merchant League?!" She shook her head. "No. There is nowhere safe. Thus, this adventuring company I have hired shall follow wherever I go."

"I must insist-"

"Are you actually going to stop my company?" Skie bristled, gesturing towards her followers. "Are you _truly_ going to stand in the way of a Red Wizard of Thay, a drow shadowdancer, The First Arrow of Mhillamniir, and Captain Ash of Mintarn?!"

When there was no immediate answer, Skie brushed past the guardsman and marched on, and Ashura hustled to follow. In stunned silence, their little party was allowed through the gate. It was probably the Red Wizard of Thay who had intimidated the guards more than anything, though those were some impressive titles all around. _Apparently I'm a pirate captain now._

Passing through the cold stone walls of the keep, they found themselves in a lavish foyer, the floor tiled in a dizzying, checkered pattern and cushioned by elaborate, circular carpets. The finish on the walls gleamed, bright and burgundy in the light of glowlamps and candelabras, paintings of seascapes and forested hills adorning the wood at regular intervals. Soft, soothing harp and piano music wafted in from a side-room, though the sound failed to drown out the shouting and bickering that echoed from the far chamber. Seemed like there was some sort of great hall up ahead, crowded with rows of people dressed in peacock-bright silks.

"…an up-jumped outsider, who has done nothing but agitate for war!" some man was shouting as they entered.

"Supplying the city's defense is no agitation!" another countered.

Skie kept pushing forward, and Ashura matched her pace. Best to move quick and sure, before too much attention was drawn. Armored soldiers at the edge of the foyer were watching them already, and mail rattled when a few stepped up.

"Need I count the sacrifices that young Lord Anchev has made in service of our city?" the first man shouted.

"And I am ready to sacrifice a great deal more," another voice –deep and resonant– boomed. "War is sacrifice, after all, and should it come to that, I would be proud to lead the charge."

Ashura's eyes narrowed on the hall just ahead. _Him._ That was _him._ Her pace quickened, overtaking and passing Skie.

There was commotion coming from behind her now, and steel clinked as the largest guard that Ashura had ever seen pushed his way into the foyer; a tower of dull grey plate. Trying her best to ignore him, she hurried even faster, head down, nostrils flaring, close to breaking into a run as she wove past dumbfounded men and women in crisp and puffy clothes.

She was _not_ getting detained again.

Dashing beneath the archway and into the great hall, Ashura searched for the source of the booming voice. The floor here shared the same tiled pattern as the front chambers, though on a far grander scale: it was perhaps seventy strides from one end to the other, much of the room lined with a long, gold-on-ruby patterned carpet and packed with milling nobles and their attendants. The place seemed to be some sort of ballroom, more than anything, the tiled ceiling arched and lit by brass and crystal chandeliers, and at each end of the hall stood wide, gently curving staircases that wound up to balconies.

All of this barely registered, save the balcony where Ashura's eyes alighted. Up there, smug as always, stood her bastard brother himself, gripping the banister and leaning above the heads of the gathered gentry. No monk's robes or armor today: instead he was dressed in a lavish suit.

Twisting from side to side, Ashura dodged her way past startled nobles and servants, her pace as quick as she could make it without shoving someone over. Her eyes were fixed on Sarevok alone, and he seemed to have noticed her as well. He glared down.

"With the Flaming Fist in disarray," one of the men beneath the balcony continued, gesturing with his wine cup, "we will need a fighter to lead us. And, although young Lord Anchev is from…" His voice trailed off as Ashura neared him, and without lowering his arms the speaker turned, fluidly, to face her.

Unlike the people around him, there was no look of surprise on this man's face. He was dressed in green, with gold piping, and he wore a neat golden beard to match. And… _Ah. Yes._ There was a bucking black horse on a white field emblazoned on his chest. House Ithcanter's crest and colors, along with the beard, made it clear that this was Lord Tracius Ithcanter himself.

"Who is this intruder?" the man boomed, blocking Ashura's path.

Varscona slipped from its sheath. _Hope you're really a doppelganger._ In any case, he was in the way. With a stomp and a lunge, Ashura closed the distance and ran the man through.

 

* * *

The moment the carriage rattled to a halt there was some scuffing up top, and Imoen leapt from the roof. Xan leaned against the door and managed to shove it open a blink or so later, stumbling out and stepping to the ground. "Wait!" he shouted after the girl.

She seemed to listen, if reluctantly, swiveling on her heel to look back as they each filed out of the carriage. Harp in one hand, Garrick used his other to help brace Grand Duke Eltan, guiding him down to the grass.

"Fine!" Imoen was shouting back at them. "But hurry! All'a'y'alls!" the moment that Eltan began to hobble towards her, Imoen turned around and started forward again, albeit slower.

Garrick found himself envying those speedy boots of hers. _Hmm. Wonder if there's a song that makes a body run faster?_ He'd have to look into that.

There seemed to be a lot commotion and confusion up ahead, and the guards lined up at the keep's gate were sharing uncertain looks. They faltered even more when they caught sight of Eltan, a wave of shock running through their ranks. That was followed by unsteady salutes.

"Let us pass!" Eltan snarled at the soldiers.

"Yeah!" Imoen concurred. "What he said. We've got a coup to stop!"

A coup that sounded to be well underway, judging by the screams, metallic clangs, and fleeing people who were beginning to emerge from the keep. Imoen tapped her foot for a moment, then lost her patience and took off once again, zipping through the palace doorway.

Xan let out a sigh and began to run after, followed by Shar-Teel, and a moment later a shove to his shoulder sent Garrick stumbling forward. "Go!" Eltan hissed from behind, still leaning against Karsa. The grand duke gestured. "Sounds like a battle in there. Don't let me slow you!"

A little numb, Garrick nodded and obeyed, whirling and running after his friends. _Good idea. 'Make yourself useful, harpist.'_

And he would! Legs pumping, Garrick raced along. He was gaining on Xan, at least, though Imoen was long gone.

His harp still cradled in his arms, he reached the palace threshold and slowed. What now? A song perhaps? Sooth the crowd? Try to rouse his companions?

Garrick looked about, though the only familiar face was Xan's. The Greycloak was running quick as he could through the foyer, one hand gripping his sword and the other fumbling for his spell-component pouch.

From a side-chamber, a familiar, richly accented voice caught Garrick's attention, bellowing out what sounded like a string of drow expletives. A blink later, Viconia came tumbling through the doorway, flat on her back. She was wreathed in dancing shadows (some sort of protective spell that she often favored), with her golden hammer out and limp in her hand. The weapon clinked against the tiles as she scurried backwards, trying to sit up, her eyes fixed on the figure that had knocked her over as he surged into the room.

_Wowa!_ Quite a figure too: the man must have been at least seven feet tall, even without the sturdy plate armor and half-helm that he was wearing. The big guy carried a warhammer of his own, though it was way larger than Viconia's. Hells, the hammer was probably taller than the drow was!

Garrick had opened his mouth, ready to shout out some spell to distract the giant, but before he could think something up the big guy actually halted and looked over at him, letting out a huff of surprise. "You!" he barked. "Little bard!"

_Why do they always say 'little?' I'm six feet tall! (Barely. But still!)_

With the giant momentarily distracted, Viconia wasted no time slithering away, disappearing behind the legs of several fleeing people.

The armored man ignored her, stepping forward and bracing his hammer. "Ha!" he exclaimed, while Garrick struggled to figure out where he knew the fellow from. "You fall right into my lap, just like that?!"

Garrick shook his head in bewilderment. Surely someone that tall-

And then it all clicked into place: the height, the hammer, and that square jaw. _Tenhammer! Oh shit!_

By then that legendary hammer was swinging in, a blur of steel, and with a discordant clang it struck, shattering both harp and bone.

 

* * *

Gasps and high-pitched screams exploded all around Ashura, as Lord Ithcanter shivered and shriveled before her, black ichor trickling from the wound in his chest and his face flowing like putty. Ashura raised her sword arm, trying to display the faceless thing to the crowd. "Doppelganger!" she shouted over the growing panic. "This man was a doppelganger! And there are others!"

From behind her she caught a flash of powder blue, and she whirled towards the motion, interposing with her offhand blade. The blue outfit belonged to a woman, her face stony despite the chaos. Her hands stretched as he lunged, grasping and clawing for Ashura's face.

Ashura went low, and the claws whistled above her head as she shoved in and stabbed. Her offhand sword sunk deep into the lady's belly, eliciting an inhuman sigh rather than a scream, and that sigh grew in pitch as Ashura shot to her feet and drew the blade further up. Then, with a twist, she ripped her sword free, spraying the carpet with black blood as Lady Corwin's (had to be her) doppelganger flopped backwards.

Whirling, Ashura pushed away and charged for the stairs. Chaos was erupting all around her now; a whirlwind of colored fabrics, and along with the scuffing shoes and worried shouts, steel was clinking. Guards were moving in.

Sarevok still loomed over the entire scene, his hands gripping the banister and his face impassive. Closer by, a man stood at the foot of the stairs, blocking the way. His eyes were wide, and as Ashura charged towards him he reached down to fumble for the sword at his belt. He was dressed in burgundy, and had a waxed moustache. Lord Portyr, maybe?

Before the man could draw his sword, Varscona flashed down and chopped cleanly through his wrist, and Ashura's next step drove her offhand blade through the man's torso. _Red_ blood splattered the stairs, and the man let out a very human shrike of pain. _Woops._

_Ah well._ A shove dropped the dying noble to the side, and Ashura raced up the first few steps.

A guardsman was thundering down to meet her, however, his halberd pointing forward, attempting to ward her back. Glaring, she lunged up and up, swaying aside and past a clumsy attempt at a stab. She used Varscona's flat to push the ax-haft away, raising her offhand sword as she moved. It swung _down_ and Ashura hopped _up_ , the tip of the blade piercing chain and lodging deep between ribs.

For an instant the guard and she were pressed bodily together, he sputtered out a _"Gurk!"_ and then she ripped her sword free and shoved him over the banister and out of the way. _Damned delays!_

Nothing left in her path now, though. Her boots pounded the stairs. There! At the top of the flight stood-

_Damnit!_ Sarevok was grinning, his arms raised high, and somehow the bastard had gotten ahold of a sword. Ahold of _the_ sword, with its curved pommel, broad steel blade, and a gem affixed in the crossguard that had burned with infernal light, that night that Gorion had died. The gem slept for the moment, a plain amber that glinted in the lamplight just before the greatsword came slicing down.

Ashura turned and shifted to the side, and the blade whistled by. It halted, however, as easily as a dragonfly might stop to hover, and then came streaking in for a sideways slash. Ashura's offhand blade managed a block, and she side-stepped up the stairs, pushing. Her gladius would give her the advantage, if she could keep close.

_Clink._ That great, terrible blade flicked away (damn he was fast!) and then it was arching in from another angle. Ashura's parry jarred her arm. The next one too. Sarevok was as fast and strong as she remembered, but she caught each blow and took each step, climbing.

He still wore that conceited grin of his. She showed him her teeth too, snarling.

"Sister!" Sarevok shouted. "Perhaps it's best that-" He grunted as Varscona flashed in and their blades locked. "-it has come to this."

_Clang! Screech! Clang!_ He backed a step, and then another, trying to find more space for a good swing. She didn't let him, rushing in and pushing. If she had to kick him to death –if she had to rip out his throat with her teeth– she would.

 

* * *

The table's edge jabbed into Garrick's ribs and he felt his spine scrape against the wall. _Oof!_ The getting-slammed-into-the-wall thing barely registered, though, compared to the screaming pain he felt from his shoulder down. His left arm lay, splayed out and twisted, across the table's surface.

On the other side of the table Taurgosz Khosann loomed, holding onto the opposite edge. His hammer's haft rested against his shoulder. "Wanted to make your suffering last, you grinning little traitor," the big man snarled. "You had a nice, safe living lined up, entertaining my men. But instead you set our camp aflame." He shook his head. "Guess I'll have to be satisfied with squishing-"

Garrick wasn't waiting for the hammer to come down. His unbroken arm had been searching through his belt, and with hitched breathes he managed to bring it up, point the little electric-blue wand forward, and hiss out the command word. " _Quet!_ "

Blue-white light flared up in answer, and the pointblank blast of lightning overwhelmed Garrick's vision; his eyes shutting tight. It took a moment for the reverberating _BOOM_ to die back and be replaced by the screams of fleeing folk nearby, along with the rattle of Khosann's mail as he took several steps back.

Wriggling, Garrick managed to slide out from behind the table, forcing his eyes open. _Damn!_ The giant still stood, smoke rising from every joint of his armor. He wore a scowl on his face, head shaking from side to side. "Not the first time I've taken one of those, boy!" Again the hammer rose, and he took a menacing step forward.

Garrick's breaths were coming out ragged, every little twitch making his useless arm rock at his side, sending twinges of agony up from there. His eyes were blurry, his knees unsteady, and the fingers of his good hand were covered in dust. Seemed that had been the wand's last charge.

With a pained snort Khosann lunged and his hammer came flying down.

_Somehow_ Garrick's legs didn't turn to jelly, and instead they propelled him to the side. The hammer's head smashed through wood, splinters flying as Garrick lurched and lumbered any-which-way he could find to escape. He stumbled, fell, rolled, and hit his head against a wall, sitting and looking up as Khosann ripped his hammer free and raised it again.

A streak of steel and flesh shifted just behind the big warrior, and rather than bringing his hammer down to crush Garrick's face the man dropped to his knees, wincing and grunting in pain. Shar-Teel loomed behind him, grinning like a maniac, her longsword streaked with blood where she had cut into the back of Khosann’s knee. She tapped the tip of her pata blade against his helmet.

"Left yourself open there, big guy," she taunted. Her eyes met Garrick's. "And don't you ever say that I owe you anything, bard."

Garrick nodded, scooting back. Shar-Teel's attention returned to the big, hobbled man. "Tenhammer himself. I remember you from that raid at Fourfields, strutting around, being a big, bossy boy for all your little underlings. But you fall like all the rest-"

With a metallic clang and a burst of motion, Khosann slammed the butt of his massive warhammer into Shar-Teel's stomach and threw her back, bodily. She struck the nearby wall with a grunt, hopping instantly to her feet as Khosann rose and turned to face her. "When you have a chance," he gritted out, "you should strike, not prattle on." He chuckled. "Just like a woman, though. Always talking, when action is called for."

That was obviously meant as bait, but – _ugh_ – judging by the look on her face it seemed like Shar-Teel had fallen for it. "Oh, you're going to pay for that one, big boy," she snarled. Hunched over, weapons out, she looked ready to spring.

Tenhammer hardly seemed like he had room to lecture anyone about monologuing, but Garrick wasn’t about to point that out or complain. Instead, he kept scooting along the wall, struggling to stay conscious and trying to put what distance he could between himself and the duel that was about to break out.

Seemed his life was in Shar-Teel's hands now, if he couldn't get away. Not very encouraging.

 

* * *

The clash of arms and the crackle of spellfire greeted Imoen as she burst into the ballroom and took in the scene. There were scorch marks on the carpet, along with a couple of gray-skinned, floppy corpses. Doppelgangers.

Edwin stood, stiff and straight, at the center of the dance floor, a bubble of arcane protection around him as he directed a streak of flashing bolts towards an old man up on the balcony. Some sort of spell-duel, seemed like. The old man glowed with protections of his own, and behind him there seemed to be a lot of commotion, swords flashing and sweeping around.

Nearer by, folk in bright clothes cowered against the walls or ran for the exits. Most had gathered in a protective cluster by the foot of the other stairway, all watching (in horror) as a burly man in silver and gold silks struggled with a slithery doppel that had hopped up onto his back. The creature's elongated fingers were trying to get a grip on the fellow's neck (did they know how to do _anything_ but strangle?), but the man had grasped both of the doppel's wrists and was pushing back, turning round and round as he did.

Skie Silvershield (of all people!) was approaching the man from behind, stalking ahead and holding up a pointy sword, her eyes fixed on the dopple. Looked like she was trying to judge the right moment to stab the slithery 'shifter without nicking the poor fellow underneath. A guardsman-looking-guy was closing in too, an ax up in his hand. Though it looked like he was about it-

"Skie!" Imoen shouted out in warning. The girl's big doe eyes swung over to look at her in shock, then she noticed the guy who was swinging an ax at her face. With a grace that fit in well, here on the ballroom floor, Skie swiveled and shifted out of the path of the blade.

By then Imoen had knocked an arrow, on reflex, and she didn't hesitate to heft, draw, and loose. The enchanted broadhead took the man in the back and pierced his scale armor like it was butter. Imoen redrew as quick as she could, and her second arrow dropped the man at Skie's feet.

For a stunned moment Skie just peered over at Imoen, then she shook herself, did a quick little thank-you-nod, and swung back to the man with the 'shifter attached to his back. Skie raised her sword, racing in to stab, and Imoen turned towards the other side of the ballroom. Where was-?

"There!" Xan panted beside her, pointing with his moonblade. Seemed he'd caught up. And, sure enough, Ashura had just pivoted into view, up on top of the opposite balcony. Varscona hammered a few times against a second, larger sword, and as Imoen rushed for the stairway she got a clearer look at the fight up there.

Ashura was bent slightly, slipping from side to side in an attempt to circle Sarevok (Imoen instantly recognized the man, even if he had changed his look a bit since his days as a monk, and even if he was dressed in dapper browns instead of spikey armor. Something about his poise and his build was unmistakable.)

The bastard followed Ashura as she swiveled, his giant fuck-off sword up in a high guard. In a flash the blade swept down, sending Ashura skipping aside and biting a deep groove into the top step. Ashura tried to shift in and get close, but the man was damn quick: he had that blade of his pointed low and interposed in an instant, repelling her blows, though he did take a step or so back. There were a couple of slashes in his puffy coat too, and the cloth was stained with blood.

_Not so much without yer armor, huh?_ Imoen's bow went over her shoulder and her dagger slipped from its sheath as she ran for the steps, her eyes fixed on _him. Revenge time, dirt bag! You can't stand up to the combined might of the Sisters of Candlekeep! Nosir!_

Sarevok was even backtracking now, his swings defensive and a scowl growing on his face. _Ha!_

Imoen raced up the steps. She was close to the top when the air started crackling, fiery light dancing just behind Sarevok and Ashura. That was followed by a _whoosh_ and a rip in the air, golden forge-fire welling up and sending curls of smoke out from the edges of the rift. Sarevok took a couple steps of retreat, Ashura battering his sword all the way, and then the portal swallowed him up. The light intensified, the rift fell in on itself, groaning, and then with a puff of smoke and a blast of heat it all winked out.

When the smoke cleared, Sarevok, the old mage, _and_ Ashura were all gone. Shura had leapt in after him!

Slowing, and then stopping, Imoen stared at the empty carpet where her sister had just been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Garrick is maybe being a bit melodramatic here, in the opening quote. Somehow, it seems he's been inspired to write Ashura as even more of a Grimdark antihero than she actually is.


	90. Death's Favored Daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Ashura is saved by the power of friendship- wait?! What?!

_"Who was the hero of the tale? Hard to say, for each player in kind assumed that it was he or she."_ –Felestin the Bard, _A Stir of Echoes_

* * *

They fell through smoke and darkness, the roar of flames and the gurgle of molten rock filling Ashura's ears. The shadows boiled, and at their edges: golden fire.

There was a sense of intense heat here —wilting and dry— yet Ashura did not burn, and though the air was thick, it did not choke her. Along with the crack and gurgle of magma there were other sounds: hisses, chitterings, and keening calls. There were creatures here, glimpsed beyond the billowing clouds of black; their forms bent, twisted, and sharp as filed bone.

Through all of this she plunged, and so did he, just ahead…or…beneath her? Hard to tell direction here. He was a block of solid smoke, jagged at the edges and fissured with cracks of light. His eyes burned even brighter than the rest of him.

Smoke and flame and howling calls whipped by, and then-

-her feet were on solid ground and there was no more roar and no more smoke and no more fire. Now she stood in some sort of vast and vaulted cavern, the floor level and sandy, surrounded by a maze of low, ruined walls. The place was dark and the stone was cold, though there seemed to be a faint light coming from somewhere behind her.

Something gurgled beyond the walls. An underground river.

The figure she had chased through the inferno had touched down a few paces in front of her. He was a man now; not a molten shadow, dressed in torn finery rather than spikes, and though his face bore many scars, there were no glowing rifts. Pinpricks of fire still danced in his eyes.

Sarevok's sword swept up and out as he placed it between them in a high guard. Ashura's own blades had been at her sides, through the plunge. She raised and crossed them before her, feet shifting.

He was dressed in _torn_ finery, she reminded herself. There were open slashes across his arms. Caught without his armor, he was vulnerable. Injured.

Ashura drew a breath and exhaled a laugh. " _Ha!_ " Her blades swept forward.

* * *

"Damn! Damn! Damn!" Turning, Imoen surveyed the chaos down on the ballroom floor. Didn't seem like there were any more blank-faced monstrosities clawing at folks, at least, and the scattered clumps of people (hers included) were all looking around and taking stock.

_Unless one of 'em's a doppel in disguise. How can we- oh yeah!_ Her eyes settled on Xan, who had ended up at the foot of the nearby stairs, a cautious hand raised and his moonblade burning.

Scooting up onto the banister, Imoen slid all the way to the ground floor, landing on the carpet at Xan's side. "Heya!" she called as she straightened up. "Are there anymore shifter's around?"

Looking a bit dizzy and bewildered, Xan managed a shake of his head. "I do not hear their distinctive voices. No." He turned back to the ballroom, and then cocked his ear, almost like he had caught some sound through the din. "Although…hm." Without further explanation, Xan started across the carpet, making his way towards the opposite stairway and the crowd gathered there.

Skie stood among them, above a heap of limp limbs and frayed clothes that had been a doppelganger a little while ago, her short sword clutched two-handed as she stared down, disbelieving. Across from her stood…Coran? _Wow._ Was the whole gang here? The wood elf had his twin daggers out, the hilts resting against his hips and smeared with black gunk. He shot Imoen a rascally smile as she neared.

"So _are_ there more doppels?" asked Imoen.

Skie shook herself, looking up. "There should have just been the six," she replied, thinking the question was for her.

Xan ignored them all, making straight for a man in silver who stood out in front of the huddling nobles. A male and female guard were moving in as well, swords out and ready. Xan raised a hand and shouted a warning before they got close to Mr. Silver: "Grand Duke Belt! Ware those soldiers!"

Sharing a brief glance, the guards turned on Xan, but he had followed his shout with an incantation. Before the pair could fully spring, a shimmer washed over them and locked them in place, frozen as bugs in amber.

Grand Duke Belt pivoted to face Xan, his hands stretched out and humming with magic of its own. "This some trick?" he snapped.

"Not on my part, I assure you," Xan said, stopping at a respectful distance. He pointed to the paralyzed guards. "These are mercenaries of the Black Talon company, brought in by Sarevok Anchev to help with-" a gesture encompassed the whole bloody mess of the ballroom "-this. Though it seems that the plot has mostly unraveled."

_Oh._ It occurred to Imoen that the guards weren't wearing any sort of symbol, Flaming Fist or otherwise, and the same went for the guy she had stopped from bopping Skie with an axe. _Guards/shmards_. Though they blended in pretty well.

"Yes," Edwin added, smoothing out his robes as he approached. "I counted six faceless corpses, scattered about this chamber (since I doubt anyone else bothered.) And the instigator this has fled."

"There may be other-" Xan began, but Imoen poked his arm.

"We need to find Shura!" she insisted. "She disappeared down some sort of portal, after _Him!_ The big guy with the big sword and all! She's in danger!"

* * *

The girl —damn her!— caught his swing and turned it back. For the moment it seemed that her strength matched his own, obviously bolstered by her divine blood.

Of course, the blessings of Bhaal were always temporary. The glow in the girl's eyes would wane. Sarevok simply had to endure, much like he had during their little 'duel' in the great library, where he had fended her off with a quarterstaff until the Watchers arrived.

Of course, if he had his armor this would be over already. Frustrating. And Winski…had he been injured in his duel with the red wizard?

No. The old man stood at foot of the great temple, his arms crossed at his chest and his sharp little eyes watching the scene unfold. Sarevok's old master offered no assistance, his stance and his cold gaze reminiscent of the days they had spent training in the Sunset Mountains. It seemed the old Theurge of Bhaal regarded this as some sort of final test.

Sarevok was alone here. As always. As he had been in that cold forest. As he had been on the filthy streets of Iriaebor. As he had been the night Rieltar had decided to teach a little lesson of his own, with a garrote rope, on the woman that Sarevok had just begun to call 'mother.'

Alone; left to live or die, endure or fail, by his own will and wits and strength —and nothing else.

Steel clanged again and again, each blow sending a jolt through his arms. Endure. He slipped aside and backtracked. There was a flash of raw pain along his side, accompanied by the sound of fabric ripping. Endure!

His scramble backwards had given him room for a proper swing, and he aimed for her neck. She shifted and the blow bit into her left spaulder instead, denting steel. Knocked her to the ground to, but she rolled with the force and was on her feet, blocking and countering, when he stomped in for the next slash.

He was bleeding. She was laughing and swinging.

Endure. Endure. Endure! With a snarl he braced his sword's blade against his palm, wielding the weapon more like a staff. A stomp forward —he _refused_ to give more ground— and they were face to face. Head-butting range. He reared back, to do just that, but her shortblade's pommel whipped in first and cracked against his chin.

_Another_ stumble backwards and a frustrated growl, though he kept his balance, keeping The Sword of Chaos in a tight grip and interposed.

The girl bent low to leap at him, and then the world exploded in a rush of white-hot flame and billowing smoke. Sarevok found himself turning from the heat and the roar, wincing and backing away. He spared a glance around (Gods be good, the girl had just been incinerated.)

Winski was gone, and the doors of the great temple stood partly ajar. Closer by, Tamoko approached. She was dressed in her midnight-black armor, a flail dangling from one hand and the other wreathed in fire. Her gaze went past Sarevok, to the flames she had just conjured. The girl had not yet emerged. Nor had there been a scream.

"I said that I would save you," Tamoko stated, dry as ever. "Even if you refused."

_Ah, yes._ This old argument. The flames were sputtering out now, and the silhouette of the girl was visible beyond them, still moving. Seemed she had stumbled back against a ruined wall.

Tamoko gestured towards the temple. "Go. Now." Their eyes met.

He opened his mouth. _'When this is over…'_ he thought to say, but there was no time. (His sister looked remarkably unscathed. Some sort of magical protection, most likely.) And he was not sure how he would finish the words, in any case. So instead he turned, and started for the gates of the Temple of Bhaal.

His armor. How he hated to _retreat_ again and again, but he needed that armor.

The sound of more flames welled up behind him, and now he sprinted for the doors. His armor, and then he would _end_ this.

* * *

"What else?" Grand Duchess Liia Jannath demanded. At least that's who Imoen guessed this woman was, judging by the robes (nothing says 'royal' like red, gold, and purple spun up in elaborate patterns from fabric that was probably worth enough to feed an army) and the jewelry (pawn those gems and you'd have enough to equip that army too). The woman's face was angular and a weathered, her sandy hair tied up and bound with pearled ribbons in a shape that reminded Imoen a bit of a warhorn.

"A pair of assassins were to infiltrate this gathering," Xan informed the duchess. "Along with the doppelgangers, and Sarevok's mercenaries."

Edwin snorted. "That pair of assassins is long dead. _Your_ little group may have been hiding under a rock these past few days, but _we_ have been quite industrious."

That hardly seemed to reassure Duchess Jannath, who gave the red wizard a brief, appraising glare before returning to Xan. "Do any of the infiltrators remain? Can you sess them out, enchanter?"

"I am uncertain," Xan admitted. "We will need to bind these Black Talons and spell them, to get the full story. And their leader-"

"HA!" Now there was a familiar sound: Shar-Teel's amplified bark/laugh echoed across the ballroom. She sauntered in through a nearby doorway, drenched in blood. "Won't have to worry about that big fellow." A few steps behind her walked Viconia, shouldering a very pale, wobbly-looking Garrick.

_Well sheesh. The gang really is all here._ With one gnawing exception.

Shar-Teel poked her chin up in the air. "Don't see how that clumsy hammer of his ever 'felled ten men in a single blow.'" Another laugh. "I know they say it was a smashed dam and all, but…"

"You would not have slain that _vesheer_ without my assistance," Viconia snarled, curt and quick. "I owed that man a great debt of pain. Shame you cut that pain short."

"Bah. Had him limping well enough. And dead is dead, eh?"

" _Bwael kres vet olar_ , I suppose."

Imoen recognized the drow proverb, often associated with males and scoffed at by the ruling class. Literally translated, it meant _'Good so long as it ends in stillness,'_ though scholars tended to read it more as the drow equivalent of _'All's well that ends well.'_ Or _'All's well that ends dead,'_ more like. Not an attitude shared by the matrons or wannabe matrons. To them, offing an enemy without style was considered almost as bad as not offing the enemy at all.

With a frustrated little breath, Viconia shoved Garrick along, and the poor fellow wobbled over against Shar-Teel's arm. "Will someone _else_ shoulder this lump?! Or settle him upon a cushion? I have done what I can for his injures, yet he limps along and moans."

"Eh?" Shar-Teel grunted. "Yeah. Sure." With a surprising amount of tenderness (in that she just dragged him along, rather than shoving, hurling, or kicking) she managed to deposit Garrick on a nearby sofa.

"So," Edwin spoke up. "I suppose this matter is mostly squared away then-"

"Mostly!" Imoen shouted. "Shura's disappeared down a magic hole!"

"('Twas why I used the word mostly, idiot!)"

"We need to find her!" Imoen insisted. "Mount a rescue!" She turned to the assembled nobles. "And go after that fellow who just tried to murder you all. We've got a lot of spellpower here. Surely we can come up with the right divinations before the trail goes cold?"

* * *

The pommel of The Sword of Chaos hammered the door aside, and Sarevok slipped through, plunging into the temple's diffuse red light. It seemed brighter than usual today, and as he charged on towards the altar he noted a fiery glow wafting up between the cracks in the floor. Above the dais, the great skull-symbol burned as well, furnace-bright. Whispers echoed, faint but there, from the shadows of the reaper statues at the temple's periphery.

There could be no doubt. The Fourfold Furnace was leaking into this place, more and more.

Winski Perorate stood, straight and stern as one of Candlekeep's instructors, at the foot of the dais, and just beyond the ancient man lay Sarevok's custom-forged armor, neatly arranged. Steel tempered by the fires of Khalas itself, sanctified with demon's blood, lined with babau-bone spikes, and topped by a helm adorned with the horns, teeth, and tusks of a nycaloth. The time it had taken to assemble those pieces —the ordeals and sacrifices that had gone into each pauldron, gauntlet, and greave— was a testimony to all that he had worked for. All that he had been through.

"There is but one more step," Winski announced, voice resonating off the temple-stone. "You know it."

"Many more steps for me," Sarevok growled. Impressive as his armor was, there were artifacts and rituals that dwarfed it. Yaga-Shura, as he had recently learned, had found a way to hide his own heart and cheat the death their father had planned for them both. The giant would be quite a challenge.

"True," Winksi said. "But this is _my_ last leap. And my way of assuring myself that I have trained a worthy heir to my master's Throne."

"Indeed." Sarevok stomped his way towards the altar. Would there be battle now? Spells?

No. Winksi simply stood there, calm and collected, even as Sarevok closed the distance and rammed the point of his sword through his old mentor's chest. The old man tensed and clawed the air for a moment, coughing out an ugly sound as The Sword of Chaos lifted him and drank his blood. The cuts and bruises that the girl had given Sarevok closed and smoothed, Winski's eyes rolled back, and then Sarevok cast him aside.

A Deathbringer has no family, after all. He began to don his armor.

* * *

For an instant all was a silent, brown void; a feeling of weightlessness coming over Imoen that was both disorienting and a little comforting (felt a bit like floating in a pool.) Then her feet touched down on solid flooring and the blankness snapped into focus; the brown-nothing resolving into roughewn walls, lamps, barrels, and startled people. There were girlish shrieks of alarm all around (despite the folks mostly being men), along with chairs overturning and the scuffing of feet. At the same time Imoen felt the hands that she had been holding slip free, and one of 'em (Shar-Teel's good one) reached for a sword.

The people they had inadvertently bamphed in on were all dressed in frayed and patchy clothes, and the air here in this big open hall had an oddly familiar tang to it. Tabaco smoke, body odor, and the clove incense that Black Lily liked to burn in a never-ending battle away those smells. Oh yeah. Imoen knew this place.

"Hold up ya fathead lob-lodders!" a familiar voice shouted. "Tis Pinky 'et landed in'er midst, and she deserves a breath'a hearin' out a'fore we prickle her an' her crew wit' crossbow bolts."

Whirling, Imoen faced the familiar rogue with open hands. "Hey there Narlen. Sorry ta drop in unannounced. And without saying the password first. Is it still _Ffard_?"

Narlen Darkwalk huffed. "Yer really stretchin' the definition o' honorary member here, ya know. Magic-appearin' like that, and at this hour o' the mornin' with a full regiment o'…" He found himself tongue-tied as he got a closer look at the woman in the center of the group, who was dressed in maybe a thousand pearls worth of resplendent robes, plus jewelry. "O'…holy fookin' hook-bloomers! Is…is that..?"

A couple of scruffy folk had emerged from side-doors, shouldering small crossbows. The door-guards of the Thieves' House. And, of course, Imoen's people had long ago drawn their weapons and spell-components.

"She is who she appears to be," a voice announced, dry and calm, coming from an alcove. Alatos Thuibuld had his arms crossed over his chest, and looked a bit more disheveled than usual, in that a few hairs were out of place, rather than none, and there were a few wrinkles in his fine black outfit, implying that it had been hastily thrown on. "Though what the duchess is doing _here_ is a pertinent question. I thought we had an understanding, your worship."

Grand Duchess Liia Jannath made a dismissive gesture. She had hardly glanced at Alatos, and was instead studying the hall and its floorboards. "We have no relation at all." She then shot the guildmaster a pointed look. "Whomever you are. I know you not, and did not intend to arrive here." Eyes again fixed on the floor, she nodded to herself. "Hm. Yes. Wherever that portal led is beneath this place. The wards prevented us from reaching the precise location."

"Under here?" Imoen mused. "Oh! The smuggler's tunnels!"

One of the nearby crossbowmen cringed. "You're not supposed to say stuff like that out loud…and in front of…"

Another dismissive wave from the grand duchess cut her off. "Yes, the underground estuary of the Chionthar. With the old ruins. I'm well aware. How do we reach it from here?"

The folks with crossbows deferred to Alatos, and after a moment he inclined his head. Didn't look too pleased, though. "That stairway, over there. Our cellars are a…rather extensive maze, which eventually lead to the cave and the underground river. If you follow the right signs." He tilted his head towards Imoen. "That girl with you knows what to look for."

Liia nodded, starting for the stairs, but she halted halfway there. "I will," she said, "of course, ignore all that I see in these cellars. Although, as a gesture of good will, perhaps…"

"Yes, yes." Alatos waved a hand. "Denkod. Voleta. Narlen. Escort them." He shot them a look. "Cautiously, now. I don't want to lose any of my people"

Those three shared startled glances, then Narlen shrugged and reached for a bow. Once it was slung over his shoulder he started for the stairs. "Lead the way," Liia insisted. "And your city thanks you-" she glanced at all three thieves "-for your patriotism."

* * *

The heat stung, but that was all. When Ashura's eyes opened and she stumbled back, she found that nothing was charred. Nothing was burnt. _Damn._ Had Gehenna made her immune to-

_Oh. Edwin's ring._ Between its enchantments and the spell-protections of her cloak, the fire had barely touched her. She really did owe that arrogant, preening pig, it seemed. Well, if she made it out of this alive, then she'd repay. Deals with devils and all. Maybe even that tumble he was always hinting at.

Through the smoke, Tamoko had her hands raised. She was wasting no time on a fresh invocation. Likely she had given up on calling down fire, too.

Ashura charged, her longsword arcing in, but before the blade struck flesh there was a rumble and a transformation rippled over Tamoko. The woman's face had been vulnerable, but now Varscona ricocheted off, chipping away a piece of craggy stone. The layer of rock covered the priestess entirely: armor and all.

The next blow skidded off Tamoko's forearm, then Ashura rolled back to avoid the whistling flail. From there their duel began in earnest.

* * *

The enchanted boots were sometimes a blessing, and sometimes an annoyance. Definitely an annoyance now, having to constantly stop and wait for the others to catch up. Coran jogged along with the usual smirk on his face, and Grand Duchess Jannath and her procession of thieves ran along just fine, but Xan, Shar-Teel, and Viconia lagged behind, always breathless. Now all three had stopped (for the umteenth friggin' time!) leaning against the walls and trying to recover.

And Edwin…well…like always, Edwin just refused to run. Imoen supposed that he'd catch up eventually (or maybe he had gotten bored and buggered off to Surthay? _Eh._ No bit loss.)

Soon as the others seemed to be breathing normal-like, Imoen swung around and pattered on down the hall, eyes sweep-sweeping over the knots and whorls in the wood as she searched for the red and green marks of the smuggler's trail. _Let's see. That one's pointing us left, right? Yup!_

She hasted 'round the bend, then skidded to a stop with a little squeak, face-to-skull with a slack-jawed, upright, and disturbingly animated skeleton. The thing's head was adorned by a surprisingly polished, winged helmet, and tiny pins of light burned deep in its eye-sockets. Despite its lack of vocal cords it managed to make a dusty, hissing noise as it raised a lethal-looking sword.

As time ground to a halt and Imoen's mind raced, she found herself wondering if the undead thing spent all of its infinite time carefully polishing that sword and helmet. Also, it seemed that she should have turned right instead of left.

Skittering backwards, Imoen rounded the fork and nearly bumped into Shar-Teel. "Little delay here," she admitted, pointing at the undead warrior as it surged around the bend with an overhand swing.

Shar-Teel just snorted in reply, shifting past Imoen as her sword shot up to parry. She didn't even look annoyed. Probably pleased to have something to smash.

* * *

Alright. For real. _What_ in the name of Sune's sweet, exceptionally round, and perfectly dimpled ass were they doing down here in this dank cavern? Rahvin had lost his damn mind. That was the only explanation.

For the third time since they had come down here, Haseo shared a frustrated look with Wudei. The old witch nodded in silent agreement, arms crossed and a scowl fixed on her face. They were supposed to be hunting down whoever had toppled the western branch of the Iron Throne, and more and more this just felt like guard duty. All the waiting was compounded by how little the boss-man deigned to tell them.

Not too unusual for Rahvin, of course. He'd always been the type to expect his underlings to never question orders, and he worked hard to live up to the image of Sembian men being gruff and aloof. The price one paid, Haseo had once supposed, for Shaldrissa living up to the tales of lusty and promiscuous Sembian women.

Still, the boss would usually keep them all busy by _giving_ orders, in situations like this. Barking out battle-plans. Maybe sending Haseo and Wudai off to scout. All of this silent, unexplained lurking about just didn't sit right.

As if he sensed the internal grumbling, Rahvin glanced back at his followers. "She will be here shortly," he snapped. "Have patience."

_She? Would be helpful if the boss at least explained who 'she' was._ Haseo opened his mouth to issue that very complaint, but the echo of distant voices forced him to reconsider. Biting down, he peered into the darkness. He couldn't see them yet, whoever they were. The strangers sounded chatty, though.

Rahvin had already drawn an arrow from his quiver, and Haseo's eyes widened when he realized it was one of the special ones. There was a little glass bulb imbedded behind the broadhead: a serious piece of explosive alchemy.

Now, Haseo just _had_ to speak up. "Uh…" he whispered. "Do we even know who those people are up there?"

Rahven knocked the arrow. The others were giving him puzzled looks as well. Gorf scratched his head. Carstag raised an eyebrow.

"I mean," Haseo spoke quick as he could, "this is obviously a smuggler's cave. Those folks might just be-"

_Twang._ And off the arrow sailed, glowing faintly as it arced across the cavern. A moment passed, and then the space ahead of them lit up with a tremendous _BOOM_.

Well, it was on now.

Haseo knocked an arrow of his own and inched towards the closest ruined wall. He gave the boss-man an expectant look. Orders? A charge? But Rahven hadn't even knocked a second arrow, and instead he was giving his bow this weird, dumbfounded look, like it had just appeared in his hands. _Beshaba's breath._ He _really_ had lost his damn mind, hadn't he? _Not good. Not good._ Had there been signs? Haseo thought back…

"So…chief?" Carstag prompted, obviously feeling the same way.

"Why are we here?" was Rahven's bewildering response.

_Definitely, definitely insane._ "Not really the time to get philosophical, boss," Haseo replied. _Insane or…OH! The other thing._ The boss had been under some spell. _Not good! Maybe worse than insane!_

And yeah, Rahven was starting to look less confused. He turned, and opened his mouth to address his followers.

Then an object came fluttering in from the far side of the cavern, arcing through the air and glowing faintly. An odd, yet familiar shape for an arrow, what with the glass bulb housed behind the arrowhead. _Not good!_

Haseo spun away and wrapped his cloak around himself right as the arrow touched down at Carstag's feet. There was a surprisingly understated _pop,_ and he had _just_ enough time to curl up a bit and think: _What are the chances they'd also be armed with some of_ those _?!_ before the concussive blast knocked him off his feet.

* * *

With bone-jarring force, Ashura struck the wall, then the dirt. Everything was spinning and flashing. Her hands opened and closed, both empty now. She had lost her offhand blade a while ago, to a blast of conjured wind, and now Varscona was gone. Her fingers fumbled through the sand, seeking a weapon. They found a piece of masonry. _Good._

Tamoko was a dark blur, stepping in. No more stone covering, at least, though her blows carried the force a damn mountain. The priestess' armor was battered, and there was a bloody gash across her cheek, but she remained irritatingly intact. "A shame that it has come to this," Tamoko said. "Knowing that you were raised in a monastery, I had hoped you were the gentle sort. That you might be persuaded to simply walk away."

The bitch was reaching out now, as she closed in. Probably preparing some sort of _harm_ touch. "But, alas," she continued, "you proved to be a determined killer."

Ashura nodded at that, propped against the wall. "Yeah. I am," she muttered through bleeding lips. Her sides ached. Bruised ribs, most likely. _Eh._ Pain was no stranger, and she had endured worse. She had been lower than this. She clenched the piece of stone, tensing.

Opening her mouth to intone her spell, Tamoko stretched her fingers out. In another part of the cavern, a sound like thunder echoed off the walls, accompanied by a distant flash. Despite the explosion, Tamoko did not pause or hesitate.

Ashura didn't either.

A snarl of pain and fury propelled her up from the wall, and she grasped the priestess' wrist. Fingers locking, she focused and she _drew_ , strength and vigor surging through her veins. Tamoko came tumbling down, and at the same time Ashura's other hand flew up to smash the piece of stone into her enemy's face. Stunned, drained, and off-balance, the priestess pitched to the side and Ashura followed, pouncing. She raised the rock and brought it down. Then she did that again. And again.

Ashura didn't stop until Tamoko's face was a red ruin and the twitching had died down. Tossing the gore-stained stone aside, she wobbled to her feet and worked to catch her breath. An ugly and inelegant way to end a duel, but that was usually how it went. Maybe Garrick would write a prettier version of it all someday.

The ruby in Varscona's crossguard drew her eye, and she bent down to fish the sword from the sand. _There._ Much better than wielding a rock. Next, she turned towards the one intact building in the ruins, the skull motif above the great double doors making it clear what this place was for.

"Alright, you son of a bitch!" she shouted. "Your girlfriend's dead! You've got no one left to hide behind!"

"And no need," that deep, resounding voice boomed from the other side. And then –horned, armored, and bristling with spikes– Sarevok emerged.

Ashura's eyes widened, briefly, at the sight of _that_ armor. _Oh shit._ Her brother's eyes were burning, the massive sword held high, and it looked like he had gained his second wind.

"Are you ready then, sister?" Sarevok taunted.

She turned to a side stance. Just the one sword left, and despite what she had ripped out of Tamoko she was still a little battered. Regardless, she forced a bloody sneer onto her face. With deliberate strides, they began to close the distance, readying their blades.

* * *

_Oh please stop bleeding! Please! Please! Please!_

One palm pressed to Xan's bloodstained side, Imoen huffed and held onto his shoulder, her legs straining as she dragged him along. They were out in the open here, and arrows might come flying in at any moment. Possibly exploding arrows! She had none of her own left to retaliate with, but hopefully whoever was out there didn't know that, and they'd stay hunkered down long enough…

'Course, hope and five coppers will get you an ale, as they say. _Huff_ and _tug. Huff_ and _tug._

Xan was not particularly heavy (much as Imoen had _tried_ to get him to eat better), but she was not particularly strong either, and his kicking and shuddering sure weren't helping. His shoes dug uneven furrows in the sand as they went, _finally_ wobbling behind one of the low walls of the ruins. With one more huff, Imoen propped the elf up against the masonry. _Oof!_

Just in time too. An arrow whistled in, _tonking_ off the stone. Thankfully, there was no explosion.

No time to rest, tho! Soon as she had some breath in her, Imoen searched through her enchanted bag and fished out a potion, popping the cork and pressing it to Xan's lips. "Come on you! Chug it down!"

He managed that, after a few fits and starts, and his breathing evened out. Once he could talk, the first thing Xan said was: "Embarrassing, how often you seem to…rescue me."

"You just make a great damsel in distress, I 'spose."

"One day, I shall find a way to repay you."

"You can recite your sentimental vows some other time," Edwin hissed from behind a separate wall. "For now, do something useful!"

Xan seemed to agree, since instead of a curt reply he began to chant. Soon his eyes filled with soft white light; the clear sign of a divination at work.

While he did that, Imoen leaned a bit out of cover, trying to get a look for herself. A blazing flash cut through the dark, hurling towards her, and she shot back behind the wall, wrapping her cloak tight and turtling up. No explosion followed; the burning arrow just struck the earth and sputtered.

" _Please_ do not attempt to peak out again," Xan sighed. "There are two archers, watching this spot. A mage as well. And a Malarite priestess, who is very eager to throw a cloud of stinging insects at the first person she gets a clear view of."

Shar-Teel muttered something, muffled in her own hidy-spot.

"They have an ogre as well," Xan warned.

Closer by, Viconia crouched. She caught Imoen's eye and gestured towards the maze of ruined houses that they found themselves hunkered down in, making a series of drow hand signs. ' _This cover. We sneak through and flank them?'_

"Good idea. You do that, Vicky, and take Narlen with ya." Narlen Darkwalk was the only fellow from the guild in sight. The others, along with the duchess, Coran, and Skie, had (hopefully) ducked for cover on the other side of the open roadway that cut through the ruins. Judging by the crackle of spellfire over there, at least, it seemed like those folks were putting up a fight.

Maybe Grand Duchess Liia would manage to blow up the whole lot of the bad guys, but Imoen wasn't going to just wait around for that. "Get behind 'em," she continued to instruct Viconia, "lay low, and get ready to throw a cloud of darkness on their heads when there's some commotion."

With a nod Viconia set out, low and silent. A hop over the shattered wall, and she was gone, followed by Narlen.

Next, Imoen turned to Shar-Teel's wall. "You stay here, Ess-Tee…" she began, eliciting a grumble "…to intercept their big guys when they get brave enough to come charging in." She waved her hand in Xan and Edwin's direction. "Protect these pansy, dress-wearing men, would ya?" Next, she turned to the hint of red robes she could see behind another wall. "And Eddy…"

"Do not call me that."

"Eddy. I'm gonna' go create a lot of commotion up ahead. When you hear it, throw whatever explody spells you can that way. Don't worry 'bout hitting me. You couldn't incinerate me even if you tried." Hopefully the taunt would get him going.

Lastly, Imoen turned to Xan, wriggling over to face him, nose to nose. "You stay alive." She kissed his forehead. "And spare a girl an _invisibility_ , would ya?" Without giving him time to reply, she began to intone a spell of her own.

Xan followed her line of thought, placing a hand on her shoulder and chanting, and the euphoric ripple of her _haste_ spell was followed a breath later by his refractive wave of _invisibility_. She disengaged, and then, quick and unseen, she shot to her feet, leapt over the wall, and took off.

The ruins raced by. An arrow drifted in, overhead, but she wasn't its target. It was floating awfully slow, anyways.

Up ahead in the open lay a soot-stained body, dressed in plate armor. One of its legs was twisted and the other had been completely severed, apparently by Imoen's exploding arrow earlier. Looked like a single arrow to the eye had finished the guy off. Maybe Coran's work.

The rest of the enemy force were still upright: huddling in doorways or looking out over windowsills in the dead-city ruins. Two of them were indeed holding bows, and as Imoen closed she knocked an arrow and took aim at the nearest one: a swarthy fellow with a jaunty mustache and light armor.

_Twang._ She flared visible and her arrow took the man by surprise, close-quarters and through the ribs. He spun and fell behind the window that he'd been perched on.

By then Imoen was intoning her next spell. She buzzed and blurred, pastel colors spreading out and solidifying into five extra Imoens. They knocked their bows in unison and ran along the road.

An arrow whistled out from a doorway, zipping through one of the fake Imoens and winking her out. Real-Imoen retaliated with an arrow of her own, and it punched through the archer's armor, sending him back in a stagger. Not a deep or vital wound, but it gave the man pause.

The air was roaring behind her. Eddy and his firepower. Imeon pitched forward and zipped past the cover that the enemy-folks had taken, a blast of heat shaking her cloak. One of the fake Imoens was a bit of a straggler, and the flames enveloped her. _Three left- ack!_

A flock of buzzing, arcane bolts shot out from the fire-storm, chasing after her. She ducked and zipped and dodged. _Fizz! Fizz! Fizz!_ Sparks flew, and illusory decoys wavered and fell apart behind her.

In the same instant an ear-splitting crash sounded close by. One of the old walls burst apart, and out stormed an eight-foot tall tower of muscle and rage, lightly armored and hefting an oversized sword. The ogre skidded across the cavern floor, just a few paces ahead, glaring down at her. The _real_ her. _Yikes!_

Imoen threw herself aside and sand exploded where she had just been. Turning his head, the ogre snarled and followed, tusks and teeth all fully bared as he roared.

Then the world winked out.

Absolute darkness, for the briefest little moment. The ogre's bellow dipped down and became a confused little _"Hurk?"_ At the same time, Imoen's infravision flared to life. There was the ogre again, a silhouette mapped out in gradations of heat.

Leaning forward, Imoen ran straight for the thing, abandoning her bow and drawing her dagger. A _hastened_ leap, and her boots touched down on one of the ogre's wrists. She scramble-ran up the slant of his great, meaty arm, then leapt onto his shoulder, bent her knees low, and planted her dagger, wrist-deep, into his eye.

In shock, the ogre wobbled a bit, and for a blink Imoen balanced there on his shoulder like it was a swaying branch. Not too different from climbing the old maple tree back in Candlekeep, really. If you ignored the stench. And the low, keening sound of animal pain. And all the gushy stuff on her hand.

She gave her dagger a twist and ripped it free. The ogre pitched back briefly (no way to tell which way he'd fall in the end) and then Imoen chanced a leap. A seven foot drop, then her boots touched down and she tucked and rolled, bursting out of Viconia's conjured cloud of darkness and racing a few steps forward just in case-

A crash behind her and a blast of wind and sand signaled that – _yes_ – the ogre had indeed fallen backwards, flattened and limb. The sounds of battle rang behind her too, though she couldn't see anything through the wall of darkness and the growing cloud of dust.

The next step would be to start hunting through the dark and taking out the rest of 'em. She almost turned to do that, but movement ahead drew Imoen's eyes first. There were flashes of steel. Two figures circling, one much smaller than the other, and leaping around. The bigger one wore spikes and horns, and carried a massive, fuck-off sword.

Imoen's eyes widened and her breath hitched. Forgetting everything behind her, she reached down and twisted her ring, winking out of visibility. Then she began to run, fast as her legs could carry her.

* * *

She circled, fighting for breath. He followed, so _damn_ fast, even in that heavy plate.

His greatsword flashed in to take her head; whistling just above as she dipped low and timed a stab. Varscona reverberated off his armor, harmless. He laughed, stomped, and now his blade arced down, biting a furrow in the sand as she rolled aside.

Ashura was a bit more nimble —more mobile— than her brother. That fact, and tireless footwork, were keeping her alive. For now.

He was a pillar of unbreakable steel, and he knew it. Another rumbling laugh, followed by a chop. Varscona deflected the blow and Ashura stumbled back, her whole arm stinging.

"You had your chance, little sister," Sarevok taunted. "But even without my armor, you could not strike me down. And with this armor…forged in perdition's fires? No chance." Another one of those smug laughs followed.

Bastard had a point though. She wasn't going to chop through that stuff. She'd need some lucky –or close and dirty– shot.

Another clang and parry, and then she leapt in closer; grabbed at one of his armor's spikes. They grappled and spun. She tried to hook and trip; got turned around instead, and caught a hard forearm blow to the back as he threw her. There were stings all along her back, from his spiked gauntlet.

The ground rushed up, she caught herself, and rolled away as his blade bit into the sand where she had been. Springing to her feet, she chopped at his arm, but by then he had lifted his sword again. A clang and a parry.

"This armor was forged for _this_ ," he added. "And I have trained all my life for _this_ , while you were reading your books. I have already slain _five_ of our siblings. You killed…that one? The assassin that I pitted against you?" A full-bodied slash followed his taunt.

She ducked, then parried the quick cut that he followed through with. "Killed him, and your woman," she snarled, shoving back. "And your pet ogre, and his slaver partner, and your pet face-shifter-queen! And every assassin you've sent, and every one of your _damn_ followers! You've got nothing left but that armor of yours."

"That is the _point._ The point to being a Deathbringer! The point to being the next Lord of Murder! To stand atop the ruins. No friends, or family; only power and blood. That is why I shall be the last, and you shall be the sixth notch upon my blade." And with that the blade he spoke of whistled in, and Ashura misjudged the feint. Again, she came away rolling, the chainmail at her bicep rent open and leaking blood.

"Because **I** am willing to sacrifice all of the Throne!" Sarevok added. The sword plunged down, and Ashura managed to catch it, bracing Varscona's blade with her free hand. "Because I possess a strength and surety that you do not!"

She twisted away, using both hands to swing and counter the flurry of quick little blows he shot at her. They sent her staggering back, and he hefted his sword for another great swing, looming high. Her eyes tracked his blade, knees bent to time her next dodge.

And then…he wobbled slightly, off balance, and shock registered in his burning eyes.

Steel rattled as a small, nimble figure materialized up on Sarevok's back. Then that figure's violet cloak fluttered as the armored man tried to buck and throw her off, but Imoen was on tight. Her legs gripped his sides like the trunk of a tree, and her hand held onto one of the tusks that protruded from the front of his helmet. She'd yanked that helmet up slightly, and her other hand was holding onto her dagger, which had been buried in the gap she'd made between helmet and his gorget. She ripped her blade free and a torrent of blood flowed from the wound, pouring down the front of his armor.

_Clink._ Sarevok Anchev dropped to his knees. He stared out, dimly, for a moment, and then fissures of burning gold began to spread and split across his face.

Imoen hopped backwards, landing on the dirt as Sarevok dropped fully, onto his side and then onto his back, his face turning to ash and fire; going up in a cloud of burning dust. It wafted out of every crevice in his armor, spiraling upwards in a whirlwind and leaving a husk of vacant steel behind. _'You've got nothing left but that armor of yours,'_ she had taunted.

Imoen's gaze shifted up to follow the cloud, but then her eyes locked with Ashura's. And those eyes were burning.

The golden glow hung heavy in the air between them. It resonated. It spoke. _'That dagger will seek your throat next. As sure as the sun sets. As sure as the way of all flesh. It is the purpose she was born for.'_

Above them both, the wheel-shaped symbol of Bhaal that overlooked the temple glowed, brighter and brighter with each passing moment.

Imoen's eyes were all fire, and her teeth glittered, bared in a massive grin. She looked down at the husk of jagged armor, every motion quick and jittery. "I killed him just like that," she said, amazed. Then she giggled. "A hop and a stab, fast and invisible. That was all it took."

Golden dust danced on the wind, thrumming with heat. The very air between them was wavering. The heat of the Furnace. The hissing voices. The smoke and the shadows. It had all returned. They were standing on a sandy cavern floor, and at the same time they were not. Felt more like those were whorls of magma-stone beneath Ashura's feet than sand.

Imoen took a giddy leap forward, balancing on top of Sarevok's hollow breastplate. Her feet rested right beside the leering skull, and she looked different in the haze and the unearthly light. Thinner. Spidery. A trick of the shadows gave her tanned complexion a darker, craggier tone —as if it had been burned. And her mouth was wider than it should be. Too many teeth. She showed them off as she laughed. "Killed him just like that. Just like I can kill any creature here." Next, she made the dagger dance and twirl in her hand, shifting the hilt between different fingers. Then she juggled it. And it was not Montaron's old dagger now. Looked as if it was made of bone.

"I slew him!" There was a manic tinge to Imoen's voice, and her tail was wagging with excitement, the spike at the end twitching.

_'That dagger…'_ the voice from the dreams whispered. _'…you know it.'_ And, of course, Ashura did. Her longsword rose, and she struck a high guard. Her fingers felt different. Clawed. She adjusted her grip.

Imoen laughed again. "Any creature here," she repeated.

_Here._ Ashura knew, without looking, that ' _here'_ was the realm of their father. There were daemons lurking and watching out on the periphery, and nearby lay a great vault, lined with statues that represented the _creatures_ of this realm. One of the statues had been Sarevok's, and it was crumbling now. She could see it all, the scope and scale of the place, in her mind's eye.

Imoen danced on the breastplate, impish and impossibly quick, each twitch difficult for Ashura's eyes to follow, and like an imp she giggled and giggled. Her tail swung 'round and 'round.

Ashura bit back an animal snarl, her cloak rustling behind her, billowing out like a pair of wings. It felt a part of her. Her lips drew back, and there were more teeth there than usual; needle-sharp.

One more crazed giggle from the daemon-girl who danced upon the armor of her slain brother, and then Imoen gripped her dagger's hilt with both hands, raised it over her head, and sprang forward in a leaping stab.


	91. Partings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein all good things must come to an end. Alas.

_"_ _Fickle be the winds, my love_

_Uncertain be the sea,_

_Yet I know one day that they shall turn_

_And steer you back to me_ _"_ -a nameless ghost, singing in the Elfsong Tavern

* * *

_No!_

With a great and deliberate effort Ashura forced her claws apart, dropping Varscona to the ground. Her other hand shot up in the same instant, claws parting for a frantic grasp.

Impact. Squirming. A flaring pain.

Off-balance and entangled, she stumbled, and then they both fell. "No," she hissed all the while. "No! No! No!"

Her eyes had shut tight, closing off the smoky dreamscape. There was a scraping sound and a stinging sensation. Steel ground and rattled. They rolled in the sand.

The wrist that Ashura was gripping twisted and flailed, trying to break free. Through it all she held her eyes shut tight. "No. I won't. I WON'T!" She was on her back. Being shaken. (She remembered the wolf, on the road out of Candlekeep, clamping down with its jaws and worrying the wound).

Then, all of a sudden, the shaking stopped. Imoen was stiff and still. The clink of damaged chainmail abated, and for a moment all went quiet. "Oh…" Imoen broke the silence with a horrified breath. "Oh…what..?"

Ashura opened her eyes. No smoke. No hellfire glow. No daemons lurked at the edges of the clearing. There were only ruins now. Imoen was no daemon-girl with gleaming teeth, and there were no sparks in her sharpened eyes. Now those eyes were just wide, glassy, and blue.

There were no claws on Ashura's fingers, she was wearing a cloak –not wings, and the temple beyond them loomed silent and dark. It had all winked out in an instant, if they had ever been in Gehenna at all.

Rocking back, Imoen lifted her dagger, clasped between limp fingers. She stared at it, disbelieving. The blade was smeared with blood. She looked from the dagger to Ashura. "What…gods…Shura…" Getting to her feet, Imoen stumbled back a step.

Ashura winced when she tried to sit up too. Her armor was a mess, and she was a mess beneath it. How many wounds? How deep? Her hand went to the most recent rent: a spot by her collarbone. Stung quite a bit. Still, she managed to wobble and sit up. Didn't seem like anything vital was leaking out.

The dagger between Imoen's hands shook. She was trembling all over.

Ashura managed to shift and raise an arm. She held out an open hand. "Imoen." _Ugh_ , was her voice raw! "Imoen. It's okay."

Teeth chattering and eyes fixed on the stained dagger, Imoen just replied with a pained whine. Then she threw the dagger aside, whirled around, and fled as fast as she could.

* * *

Several days later, in the crowded feasthall of the Friendly Arm Inn, Imoen found herself a corner table and plopped down behind it. A few sips of ale followed, and then, idly, she drew her dagger and balanced it in front of her. A single finger kept the blade standing upright, point first.

This was not Montaron's old weapon, of course. She had left that cursed thing back in the underworld beneath Baldur's Gate. Her new dagger was just a modestly priced piece of steel that she'd bought today from Bentley Mirrorshade. 'Forged with fresh iron,' he had promised.

Not Montaron's old dagger, but it was keen enough. Looked like it could easily cut a throat or two.

_'_ _You have my gratitude, for saving both my life, and my city. I hope that you understand, however, why you can never set foot within these walls again.'_ Those had been Grand Duke Eltan's words. Not spoken unkindly. And yeah, Imoen had certainly understood. Even if they had been pardoned, there were a _lot_ of people in the city who probably wanted revenge for the deaths they had caused. So, in the dead of night, they had been thanked, quietly smuggled onto a ship by the Harbormaster's people, and then shipped across the river.

The dagger slowly spun, and the hole that it had nicked in the tabletop began to grow. Imoen pondered just tossing the weapon away, like the old one. But then, how would she cut up her apples, sausages, or the bits of spit-roasted rabbit they often ate on the trail? How would she whittle improvised tent stakes? Or slice tripwire-traps? In truth, she had used Montaron's old blade a lot more for that sort of thing than for killing.

There was a clinking sound at the other end of the table, and Imoen glanced up to see Ashura ease onto the opposite stool. She still wore her chainmail all the time. Probably wise that way. "Don't think Bently'll be pleased if he catches you destroying his tabletop," Ashura noted.

"They've got worse marks in'em." The dagger kept spinning. A little sawdust was gathering around the point.

"Just don't want to get banned from any more inns. We're close to running out of places to stay." Shura's tone was light; her usual gallows humor. Imoen didn't respond, and after an awkward pause, Ashura tried a different tack. "I've been wracking my brain, trying to remember another time you've looked this morose. And I can't think of any."

All along the journey south through the farmlands Ashura had tried to be reassuring, in her way. Pats on the shoulder. Kind words. _'_ _It's okay, Imoen.'_ Hadn't made it okay, though. Imoen turned her head, leaving the dagger imbedded and upright. "Yer the one acting strange, you know. _Not_ being upset 'bout what happened."

"We're alive, aren't we? We all survived-" (Not true. After the battle they had found pieces of Voleta scattered across the floor of the cavern, blasted by the first explosive arrow. Not like Shura would care about the death of someone she'd never even met, though) "-miraculous as that is. And this ugly business with Sarevok and the assassins is done."

"Ugly isn't the half of is." Imoen looked up. "And I stabbed you-"

"It's healed now. And that wasn't the first wound you've given me. Imoen, it was…" She breathed in deep. "…it was just another spell. And we broke it. And we're alive."

Imoen flung her arms up and out in frustration. "But don't you see?! That arrow-wound, back at Feldpost's! That was probably our dad's doing too!"

"It was just an enchantment-"

"I caught ya flat-footed, despite yer arrow-dodging boots." Caught a _lot_ of folks flat-footed, recently. All those arrows and spurts of blood. _Thump - zip - thunk -crash_ , and then the folks would go still. "And don't tell me you didn't feel it," Imoen added "out in front of the temple. That _pull._ You know what…what our dad intended." She placed two fingertips against the pommel of the dagger once again, eyes on the blade. "I don't want to be a monster."

Ashura's hand shot across the table, knocking the dagger over. "Good thing you're not one, then. You're an adventurer. A clever, quick, city-saving adventurer, just like the ones in all those tales we grew up reading. You remember? Reading out loud, under the maple tree? And the days with my dad?"

"He did the best voices."

"Yeah. He did."

Imoen took a long breath. "Thanks." A pause. "Still…you suppose that after all of this, and knowing what we know…"

"What?"

"You suppose we might should take separate roads? Just for a bit. This curse we've been living: maybe it's worse because it's been both of us traveling together. And then worse still when we got near our big, stupid brother."

_Darn._ Ashura looked hurt. Like, really, really hurt. "I won't stop you," she replied, voice soft, looking down.

Imoen hastened to reach across the table and take her sister's hand. "Sorry. I love you, Shura."

"Love you too, Ims." A little silence, and then a tight smile. "You thinking of going north? With Xan?"

"Dunno." Evereska had finally called Xan back, after he sent the latest news to his superiors, and his offer to take her with him still stood. On the one hand, who doesn't dream of going to an enchanted elven enclave, where people can float from story to story of the crystal towers as easy as walking up stairs? And maybe it would be peaceful, after all of this. Maybe there'd be a house with a garden to tend to, and a little half-elf or two would follow…

On the _other_ hand, Imoen had a hard time picturing what she, being a restless and impulsive twenty-year-old human girl and all, would actually _do_ for long in a quiet elven city. And she wasn't just any human…what if _something_ ugly followed her into the sacred place? What if, being what she was, she put Xan and his family in danger?

"Just something to think about," Imoen finally said. "While we wait for the others to recover. And, truth be told, I just don't want to get wrapped up in Edwin's next stupid plan. That heist was enough for me. I know you feel like you owe him, but I don't. Would rather at least take a detour and fulfill some promises of my own." _Hm._ Now there was a thought. She had a little unfinished business back at Candlekeep; far more important than the schemes of red wizards.

"If we do part ways-"

"We'll meet up again." Imoen thought for a moment. "I know! We can get back together the way adventurers always do. Set a date, and meet in an inn!"

* * *

The world was white; the sleeping woodlands covered by a solid layer of snow. Side by side, Ashura and Garrick led a horse across the weathered drawbridge of the Friendly Arm, then down the southern trail. They stopped at a copse of trees, to make sure that all of the saddle bags were secure, and then Garrick got ready to mount up. He turned to Ashura first. "We'll see each other again. I promise." The smile he gave her was a little forced.

Ashura patted his shoulder and ruffled his cloak, careful not to nudge the opposite arm, which was hanging in a sling. "Hope your hand heals nice and straight. And if it doesn't, you find yourself a decent priest or something. Alright?"

He nodded.

"I'd miss your music." Her voice caught and her eyes stung a bit at the edges.

"If the book sells I'll be able to afford all sorts of healing." A nervous chuckle. "But I'm sure it'll be fine. Just got to remember to only hold the reins with one hand. All careful-like."

"You could stay a little while longer-"

Another nervous chuckle cut her off. "Best to be going before Shar-Teel starts asking for her money. And there are probably lots of folks itching to tell the full tale of the Iron Crisis. I've gotta beat them to it."

This was not a place they all could stay for much longer, anyway. The Friendly Arm's guard was independent, but the Flaming Fist patrolled nearby. If Ashura and the others stuck around too long, in one place like this, there'd be someone coming for revenge. Xan had already started his own journey north, after a long talk with Imoen and quite a few tears.

"You be safe," Ashura said, scooting in as close as she could get to him. Their kiss was brief, but the embrace that followed lasted a lot longer, her cheek pressed to his shoulder. She felt his chin nuzzle against her crown, his good arm clinging to her, and for a time neither seemed inclined to let go.

Eventually they did untangle their limbs and step back. Turning around —and wary of his injured hand— Garrick gripped the saddle horn, found a stirrup, and swung up onto his horse. A fine horse too: a sleek, palfrey mare. She was fast and light, and if Garrick bumped into any danger on the road, she would be the perfect sort to outrun it. Hopefully.

Blinking against the glare of the snow, Garrick gave Ashura one more look and a nod, then he turned south. The palfrey began to trot. A few strides down the road, however, Garrick and his mount paused. He looked back. "Oh. Hey. Ash?"

"Yes?"

"Is it okay if I call it _'The Unauthorized Biography of Ashura Adrian_?' Figure it might sell better if it's unauthorized."

She snorted. "It can't be unauthorized if you have to ask, idiot-" and then she stopped herself, laughing. He was grinning down at her. A joke, and it had been one of his better ones. "Write whatever outlandish drivel you want," she told him, grinning wide.

He saluted. "That I will, sir!" Turning in the saddle, he started down the road once more.

"Be safe!" she shouted after him, and then, for a time, she watched him amble on, her vision swimming. Eventually she turned away and bent her head, cheeks warmed by tears. Truth be told, she hoped that she really never saw him again. _Go on to Berdusk. Find a printer for that book, and then maybe write some songs. Find a nice bard-girl too, and then maybe some little bardlings will follow._ It was better that way.

There was a long stretch of open road between the looming forests, here on the trail south from the Friendly Arm. If she wanted to, Ashura could have watched the horse and its rider trot along a good ways before it disappeared behind a bend. But she didn't. She walked away.

* * *

A bag of holding makes packing up and moving out pretty simple and trivial. Still, just to be sure, Imoen rummaged through the bag and went over what she was carrying one more time. Wouldn't want to skedaddle without fairly divvying up the loot. Nosir.

Seemed like she was only carrying what she needed: an oilcloth tent, provisions for the road ('multiple feasts' would probably be how other folks would describe all the food she had stuffed away), several bottles of rum, a tin pot and a cast iron pan, a fair share of coins and gems, multiple changes of clothes (all varying shades of pastels), toiletries, thieves tools, caltrops, alchemical smoke bombs, alchemical incendiary bombs, alchemical bomb-bombs, her arrow collection, her scroll collection, writing implements, her spellbook, multiple spellbooks lifted off of dead enemy mages that were full of arcane formulas that she would _totally_ transcribe one of these days, healing draughts, _haste_ potions, sundry enhancement potions ( _cat_ _'_ _s grace, eagle's splendor, bull's strength, bear's endurance, insight, mental clarity, thievery,_ and _genius_ ), a few _invisibility_ potions, a grappling hook, lots of rope, and a trenching spade. You know: just the necessities.

Oh. And lest we forget, down there amongst the various spell-scrolls in her bag sat a couple of very important, newly purchased ones. Gellana Mirrorshade had been nice enough to give her a discount on those, once she had explained what she needed them for.

With everything accounted for, Imoen turned to the door and silently padded out of the room, then down the hall. She'd miss her sister. She'd miss most of them, in fact (though it would be good to get away from Edwin). Navigating by moonlight and infravision, she crept down through the hall and made her way to the ground floor, through the common area, and then out the exit of the Friendly Arm's keep. The courtyard was an empty canvas of blue-white, sleepy and silent until Imoen's careful steps crunched the snow.

Hopefully no one would complain about what she'd taken, and hopefully the note she had left behind would put Ashura's mind at ease.

As she neared the Arm's outer walls, a suspicion that she was being watched came over Imoen. She looked back, and her heart about leapt out of her chest at the sight of a formless figure in black, just a few steps behind. Her hand swished down to her dagger, but then she realized that the cloak and cowl were pretty familiar. Biting her lower lip, Imoen gave Viconia a guilty little wave. "Sorry 'bout not sayin' goodbye," she whispered.

Silent, save for the faintest crunch of snow (how did she do that anyway?) Viconia slipped in at Imoen's side. "Perhaps there is no need for goodbyes?" the drow replied, one eyebrow raised. "I owe you my life, and-"

"Hey now. No need for that. I'm sure you've saved my life a couple'a times over since then."

"Regardless. If you would have me, I wish to follow you on the road."

"Oh. Well, sure. Thought that you and Shura had become pretty good pals is all." Imoen started forward, and together they made their way towards the drawbridge.

"I respect her, yes. The moustache-stroking Thayvian pig is another story, however. And she seems intent on following his latest scheme."

"Ack? Do you think he's going to betray her?" Imoen thought about turning around then and there.

"Hardly. More likely they will bed each other within a tenday. And he means to protect his _interests_. I simply have no desire to be counted as one of those _interests_. If I have to listen to one more comment about red-blooded wizards and ' _Thayvian technique…_ ' Bah!"

That made Imoen giggle. "I'm a little surprised that you, of all people, wouldn't at least check to see if he's all talk or not. Urm. No offense."

"None taken. But I knew the instant he opened his mouth that he was all talk. Bragging of the ' _moans of concubines_.' Does the fool not know that it is a concubine's _job_ to fawn and coo over the pig who owns her? I should know. And I've no wish to be anyone's property again."

Imoen swallowed. She knew that story: how the poor drow had been captured and taken as a pet by a wealthy merchant the day that she set foot, blinded and disoriented, on the surface. And how the asshole-guy's guards had nearly killed Viconia a few months later, when she had given the man a heart attack while they were doing the deed. Reaching out, Imoen gave her friend a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

But that just prompted a fierce look from Viconia, followed by a shake of her head. "Do not pet or patronize me. I simply state fact."

"Alright, alright." _Touchy subject._ They fell silent after that, walking along through the snow and the moonlight.

* * *

_'_ _This isn't goodbye!'_ Imoen's letter read. _'I mean that. I just think that, like we've talked about, it'd be good for us to see what happens on separate roads. See if this curse is less pernicious when we're apart. Let's meet again at the Friendly Arm, say Ches 19? Okay? We can swap stories over some ale, just like old times._

_'_ _And if that doesn't work, feel free to track me down. I think I'll be pretty easy to find, after I de-rock-ify a certain Rashemi HERO. You will know us by our trail of heroic tails! Yargh!'_

Carefully folding up the parchment, Ashura packed it away, stepping out of her room. There was no mention in the letter of Viconia, though it was pretty clear what had happened. Couldn't really blame them, either. _The nineteenth of Ches it is._

Down in the bustling common room, Edwin looked impatient as ever, standing near the door with his arms crossed. With a roll of her eyes, Ashura sauntered on towards him, Coran and Shar-Teel rising from a nearby table to follow her (Shar-Teel had spent a lot of her time lately near the wood elf, constantly taunting him. Something going on there, it seemed like).

"About time," the red wizard huffed once they had neared. He waved at the door. "Provided there are no more distractions, let us go!"

"Yeah," Ashura muttered. "Lead on, master." She was glad that she had recovered her offhand blade —Montaron's old short sword— after the battle with Sarevok. It was the perfect weapon for stabbing someone in the back.

Edwin snorted. "I would call that a rare display of wisdom, but I _do_ recognize sarcasm when I see it." Together they passed through the doorway and out into the morning light. "I will require greater obedience, once we are in the Wood of Sharp Teeth."

"This is a trap you're leading me into, isn't it?"

"Obviously. But it is a trap of _my_ making, for _my_ enemies. All will be explained (or at least, the parts of the plot that your feeble intellect can grasp) along the way."

If Imoen were still here she'd probably have come up with a good way to make this windbag huff and puff by now. Probably would have called him 'Eddy' a few times too. Already, Ashura was beginning to miss her sister.

* * *

With an unwelcome, agonized gasp, Winksi Perorate shot up and pressed a hand to his chest. It burned. Gods did it burn! _Where? How?_

His hands scraped at the floor around him. Tiles. A mosaic. And a lot of dried blood. He remembered falling to the temple floor, cold and fading. Then, a field of endless, chalky white, littered with people praying to be lifted up by their gods. That all felt like a dream now, though. This was real: the cold floor, his worn old bones, and the pain.

"I imagine you were eager for some rest, old friend" a woman's voice called out, and Winski turned to find a familiar figure sitting on the steps of the temple's altar. Her hair was a strawberry red, her face was ruddy, her smile was crooked, and she was dressed in sturdy trousers and a green tunic slashed by a stripe of bright red. On her head rested a circlet, wreathed in feathers.

_Well_ , that certainly answered the question of _how_ he had been brought back. He thought to reply to his fellow Deathstalker. _'_ _It has been a long life, indeed.'_ All that came out was a labored cough, however.

The woman straightened and stood, towering above him and grinning down. "But our master was not perturbed by his own death," she continued, "now was he? No reason for you to be either. And we have work to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went back and forth a lot on whether or not Ashura and Imoen should actually part, and wrote several versions of this chapter. Still, in the end, it felt like where they had been heading, sort of becoming separate *adventuring party leaders* for the time being. Judge for yourself though (all comments are welcome).
> 
> And that's the last chapter-chapter. Just the epilogue to go, and then this monster will be complete! Thank you so much for reading!


	92. Epilogue - Further Adventures

** Epilogue - Further Adventures **

_ "No matter where you go, there you are."  _ –Confucius

* * *

Mirtul 3, 1369 D.R. 

Eyes burning and lungs heaving, Imoen shoved the door aside and stumbled out into the light, dropping to her knees at the top of the wooden steps. Raspy cough after raspy cough followed, though thankfully she managed to keep her highbite down. Eventually she found the strength to slip her legs around, sitting down on the stoop and wiping the tears from her eyes.

Once her vision had cleared a bit, she noticed Viconia and Kirian down on the grass in front of the storehouse. Both women were on their hands and knees, still coughing hard.

Above them, the sky was a deep azure, speckled here and there with puffy, flat-bottomed clouds. A pretty day. Hard to believe that there was a dingy vault just beneath their feet, where a summoned demon had been let loose minutes ago. Last Imoen had seen of the creature, before the choking gas had forced her to flee, it seemed like it had been dying, so hopefully…

The door flew open, nearly off its hinges, and Imoen tensed. To her relief, though, the figure who came stumbling out was no demon, even if he was near as big and broad as one. Minsc was hacking and rasping hard, just like the rest of them, yet somehow he managed a giant, goofy grin as he caught Imoen's eye and leaned against the storehouse wall. Trails of orange smoke seeped out through the doorway behind him, rising up into the air.

Shortly behind Minsc came Hurgan Stoneblade, the old fellow as bleary-eyed as everyone else, but trying to hide it. Dwarven pride and all that. He coughed, lightly as he could manage, into his fist, then turned his head.

A moment later the last member of their odd little band came strutting out of the building, a fiendish grin plastered across his bushy-browed face. Looked like the drow had been completely untouched the gas. As he adjusted his spidersilk cloak and sauntered over to stand beside Imoen, Baeloth Barrityl gave her a slightly disappointed shake of his head. "Such a shame that you left early. You missed the most marvelous show!"

"Yup," Imoen rasped. "Such a shame, me not suffocatin' on account o' that gas-ball you threw in our midst."

Baeloth made a dismissive gesture. "Yes, yes. You disappointingly delicate surfacer scum, with your primitive need to _breathe._ I had forgotten about that particular weakness. Apologies." Didn't sound the least bit sorry.

"So what sorta show did we breathin' scum-folks miss?"

Baeloth looked off, and actually got a bit wispy-like. "Oh it was glorious. Simply glorious." His voice took on a _'let-me-set-the-scene-for-you'_ sort of tone. Ever the showman. "The nabassu, choking and then crumbling to dust. The cultists, trying to chant despite the poisoned gas and sounding like a choir from the pits of Pandemonium. Then, one by one, the demon would possess the humans and come _bursting_ out in a spectacular shower of gore and viscera, like it was emerging from a squishy, fleshy egg. And each time that happened, the demon would find that it was still trapped in the cloud, cough, turn to dust, and then the cycle would repeat itself, until the entire chamber was caked in bits of exploded human. No more cultists, no more demon." He let out a nostalgic sigh. "Ah. It reminded me so much of home."

"Guess you would'a just loved Oompah the Exploding Ogre, then."

Baeloth's attention had drifted off, and he didn't respond. Instead, he yelled over to Viconia, who had finally recovered from her coughing fit. "Hey. You! The disgraced exile! Do you remember that most delightful form of execution that the Sorcere invented a while back? Where the prisoners step onto an explosive rune, and then… _pop!_ Bits of prisoner everywhere. As I recall, that was the fate most of the servants of House DeVir met, once their patrons had been defeated."

Viconia just gave him an even glare.

"I thought you might be familiar? Eh. In any case, the scene back in the basement was quite similar." He scoffed. "And _you_ thought that we should flee from the demon! Ha! A nabasu is easy enough to deal with, so long as you know not to look it in the eye. That blasted, tricksy cambion that we took the dagger from in the first place was _far_ more of a challenge, really."

"At least you did not nearly kill us all when we fought the cambion," Viconia replied. "In fact, as I recall, once your initial spells had failed you simply slunk back into the shadows and did nothing more."

"A tactical maneuver."

"Your cowardice does not concern me, male. Better that you curl up and hide than **summoning a cloud of poison** into our midst without warning!"

Baeloth sighed dramatically and threw up his hands. "Fine. Fine. Next time I will _try_ to shout a warning first. Give you all a sporting chance to step out of the way." He looked to Imoen. "There. See. Teamwork and harmonious group-dynamics and all of that…stuff you're always prattling on about." He then surveyed the group. "We all survived and won, in any case."

Imoen chuckled. _Eh._ Yeah, they had. And, prone as he was to perniciously poking and prodding his companions, the drow sorcerer had proven himself useful enough, especially during the grueling descent through Durlag's old tower. 

Just so long as Imoen could keep Viconia or Kirian from murdering Baeloth, and vice-versa, _while_ keeping the pair of dark elves that she seemed to have adopted from being murdered by an angry mob…well. Then everything would work out fine! Easy-peasy!

* * *

A few hours later, after Hurgan had thanked them, paid them, and then headed off, the companions found themselves all sitting around the biggest table in Ulgoth’s Beard’s single (and rather shabby) inn. A very nervous innkeep hovered nearby, taking their orders for eveningfeast. (Well, for ale at least. Just one choice when it came to the meal.) 

Baeloth had restored the disguising spell that made him appear to be a moon elf (after his usual complaints), and Viconia now wore her mask, but they _had_ just killed about a third of the town's population. So…yeah. The innkeep had every reason to be terrified. Maybe vengeful too. Those cultists had been his customers.

On top of that, the village of Ulgoth's Beard was _way_ too close to the Gate for Imoen's liking. There were no Flaming Fists actually stationed here, but it was just a day or so's walk down the river to the big city. If word of their presence spread…well. This was definitely not a place they should stay overnight (and it would probably be best to test their food for poison before digging in.)

For now, the innkeep appeared to be more fearful than furious. He worked a corner of his apron between his fingers, head cocked, as he thought over the question that Imoen had just asked him. "Aye," he eventually said. "Aye, they were here." He was a ruddy-faced, bearded fellow; not exactly chubby but a little on the pear-shaped side.

"Oh really?" Imoen perked up, _trying_ to give the poor fellow her friendliest smile.

"Twice, in fact. The first time was back in the winter. They had a nasty run-in with our local archmage."

"Archmage?"

"Shandalar's his name. Lives in the floating boat. He just happened to stop in for supplies when your friends were here, and was none too pleased to see them. The halfling girl especially."

"Halfling?" Imoen had described Ashura, Edwin, Shar-Teel, and Coran to the innkeep. If there was a halfling with them, she must have been a new edition.

"Yeah. The halfling came in and joined them." He thought a moment. "Here's how I recall it: they had come in for a midday meal; Raven-Hair, that big blonde woman with the pigtails, and the foreign fellow in red robes with the braided beard. No tattooed elf with red hair, though, sorry. Anyways, this halfling girl with purple hair came tromping in a little later, and I guess she was a friend of theirs. She seemed real friendly, at least. Ended up eating with them, but sometime after that Shandalar arrived, spotted the halfling, and got _furious._ Claimed that she had stolen something from him, back in Baldur's Gate."

_ Hoo boy!  _ Imoen had a pretty good idea now of what that stolen 'something' had been. And who the halfling was. One more reason to get the heck out of Ulgoth's Beard fast as they could. Wouldn't want to get spotted by Shandalar, or his daughters.

"They all talked for a bit, back and forth, and Shandalar just got madder and madder. Then he cast some sort of spell that zapped them all away at once. _Poof!_ Thought maybe they'd been vaporized, but when I asked, Shandalar said that they'd been sent to 'an appropriate prison.'"

"No!" Minsc shouted, fist pummeling the table. Then the ranger shot to his feet. "We must up and mount a rescue immediately! Point us in the direction of this prison, my good sir, and we shall-"

The innkeep cut him off. "No need for that," he insisted. "Like I said, I saw your friends _twice_. The second time was…" he thought a moment. "Hm. Sometime last month? Guess they had broken out of whatever Hell Shandalar had sent them to. Could be that they came back for revenge, but Shandalar and his girls were away at the time. They do that, you see: just sail off in that flying ship, then show up a tenday or two later.

"Anyways, your friends ended up booking passage on a ship. Bound for Athkatla, as I recall. Was the last I saw of them."

"Ah," Imoen said. "That makes sense." Edwin had been after some treasure that was buried beneath that city. And the magical imprisonment explained why Shura had never showed up for their reunion at the Friendly Arm. _Whew. Glad she didn't just forget._ Imoen had been a bit worried since then, though she had known pretty definitively that her sister was still alive. The dreams, and that hall with the statues. Ashura's statue had still been standing there, last time she'd checked.

Giving the innkeep her toothiest smile, Imoen handed him a fat, gold, dwarf-minted coin. "Thank you so much for telling us," she said. "We'll be out of 'yer hair soon as possible." She handed him a second coin. There were plenty to spare, after Durlag's Tower. "And we're real, real sorry 'bout the business with the demon cultists."

The innkeep forced a polite smile, pocketed the gold, and headed off.

"To Athkatla we go, I 'spose." She shot Minsc a smile too, as he finally settled down. 'Course, he was still looking about suspiciously, searching the room for damsels-in-distress to rescue.

Across the table, Kirian snorted. "So we're chasing after 'Raven-Hair' then? Good. That bitch owes me a belt."

"Pretty sure she won that fair and square."

Kirian's lip twitched, and she ran a hand through her mop of short, mouse-brown hair. "There's nothing fair about throwing your opponent at a basilisk."

"That's totally not how it happened."

Kirian's only retort was a low grumble as she crossed her arms and looked away. Like Baeloth, she was another stray they had picked up on the road to Durlag's Tower, although Imoen had met her before that. Bit of a story: they had first met Kirian when she had been the mouthy leader of a group of adventurers, competing with Imoen, Shura and the rest over the bounty on some madman who was cultivating basilisks.

When the rival hunting parties had met they had exchanged a lot of insults, and somehow they ended up agreeing to a rather stupid contest between their 'leaders,' the winner getting their pick of one of the loser's enchanted items. The little race had ended (predictably) with Kirian stumbling into a basilisk and getting petrified. Then, once the lizard had been squashed, Ashura had snagged Kirian's enchanted belt and they all gone on their way.

Imoen had hoped that Kirian's companions would have come back and freed her, but it kind of came as no surprise when, months later, she had found the woman still statuefied in mid-stride with a surprised look on her face, her pants now around her ankles to add insult to injury (at least she had been wearing a longish tunic!) Once Kirian had been de-rockified (and taken an embarrassing fall) she had actually made a pretty good addition to the team. Sword-and-spell wise, at least. Certainly had a mouth that still got her into trouble.

"And come on," Imoen eventually added, glancing at the kitchen and hoping that their meal would be arriving soon. "After the vault below Durlag's Tower and all the rest, can't you afford to just buy a new enchanted belt? Or ten? They probably sell all sorts of stuff like that in the markets of Athkatla."

Kirian pouted a moment more. "I guess so." Then she grinned. "Alright. I admit it. It was quite the haul. Best I've ever seen."

Imoen clapped. "And the City of Coin just sounds like the perfect place to spend our new treasure." And catch up with her sister, of course. See? It would all work out.

* * *

Mirtul 12, 1369 D.R.

Rising and falling, the ship cut through the waves, threading its way past treacherous shoals and on to the deeper waters of the Sea of Swords. Up on the deck, beneath the single mast, Ashura leaned back and pressed a rag to her cheek, trying to wipe away the blood that caked her face. It was a warm, clear day; the sky a deep blue, brushed at the edges with the faintest of clouds.

Glancing back, Ashura watched the island recede behind them. From here it just looked like a clump of jagged rocks, with the ancient trees of the forest peeking out here and there, all ringed by golden sandbars. At the rear of the boat Durlyle minded the rudder, his sister standing nearby and adjusting the rigging, assisted by the air mephit that Edwin had conjured up. The little creature buzzed around the sail, fiddling with the ropes, and the twins looked up to meet her gaze. Durlyle gave her a hint of a smile and a friendly nod, before Ashura turned away.

A little awkward. Most of the blood that was smeared across her face and soaking into her recently-donned tunic had belonged to Durlyle and Delainy's aunt. That fact didn’t seem to upset the twins, and perhaps now they just saw Ashura as their pack’s new leader, but still…

"You missed a spot," Edwin grumbled, stepping in beside the mast. His hands had been in his sleeves, but now he unfolded them and pointed at Ashura's face. "There." Another waggle of his finger. "And there…and above your neck…and…bah! You're just making more of a mess. Come the morrow, I'll summon a water elemental to clean you up properly."

Ashura snorted, abandoning the blood-soaked rag. The wind felt good on her face, and the briny scent that it carried was familiar. "Appreciate it."

Up at the ship's prow Shar-Teel was slouching and staring off. She looked about as filthy, beaten up, and exhausted as Ashura felt, though the halfling that stood at Shar-Teel’s side was a study in contrast. Alora's violet shirt was the same vibrant hue as always, despite all the time on the island and the fact that they had just gone crawling through cramped, wolf-infested caves, and her fuchsia hair had somehow kept its luster. Even Edwin's robes were speckled here and there with dirt, but Alora had remained untouched.

The hin girl turned to look over her shoulder, and her wide moon-face broke into a huge grin. "This is so exiting!" she chirped. "No more running and getting chased 'round that teeny-tiny island by the big mean wolfies!" She stopped herself and coughed. "Um. No offense meant, of course. All the big mean wolfies present—" her eyes swept over Ashura and the twins "—are totally fine! I was just going stir-crazy in that little place."

"This boat is even more 'teeny-tiny' than the island," Edwin pointed out, his voice dry. "Perhaps you would be more comfortable out on the open waves? It can be arranged."

Alora laughed at that. "Good one, Edwin! So happy to see that you've brightened up enough to start telling jokes!" And with that she turned back to watch the sea.

"(Who says that I was joking?)" Edwin's gaze shifted to Ashura, his voice pitched low. "My mephit could easily snatch her up and deposit her out there with the flotsam and jetsam where she belongs. If our 'captain' wishes it."

Ashura rolled her eyes and said nothing. Hells, even if Edwin wasn’t joking and they actually tried to murder Alora, she doubted it would be that simple. The girl had managed to evade and even _tease_ a raging pack of wolfweres in the close confines of a derelict ship, not to mention avoiding Ashura's own jaws, that time that she had lost control. The mephit probably wouldn't fare any better.

"Remind me," Edwin continued, still glaring at Alora, "why we are carrying such an annoying piece of cargo in the first place?"

"Because she broke us out of the magical prison."

"That she had gotten us into in the first place!"

"You had a hand in that too."

"Bah."

"As I recall, that wizard was only mad at her, until a certain red idiot started pestering him…" Her voice trailed off when a shadow fell over her. Durlyle had slipped in at the other side of the mast, his sister left to mind the till. He knelt, his cloak brushing the deck, and offered Ashura a stoppered bladder.

"The decoction of belladonna flowers, as asked," the young man explained. "Mixed with the blood of the elder within your stomach, it _may_ dissipate the…curse, as you might call it."

Nodding, Ashura took the waterskin. It sloshed in her hand.

Edwin groaned. "More likely you will vomit your innards out and die a slow, painful, hallucination-wracked death. You _do_ realize that is poison, correct?"

"It is not strong enough to injure one of our blood," Durlyle stated, dismissive. "Visions will accompany the imbibing, however. Should you choose to drink it, I will watch over you."

"(So sweet)," Edwin grumbled "(that I can feel my teeth rotting away.)"

"Or you can attempt to embrace the beast, as we have discussed," Durlyle continued, ignoring the red wizard. "Ride it. Guide it. Live with it. But…difficult, that may be. When turned you were more…fearsome than most."

That was putting it mildly. Shar-Teel's ribs were still healing from the blow Ashura had given her, and Alora would have been bitten in half if the hin girl hadn't been so preternaturally nimble. Of course, the strength, heightened senses, and toughened hide that the transformation gave her were difficult to things to just casually throw away. She remembered Shar-Teel’s sword bouncing harmlessly off her skin; remembered cutting a swath through the other creatures, her new form bolstered by her divine blood; and she remembered the fight with Kaishas. Would they even be leaving the island now at all, if she hadn’t been able to face the pack leader on equal footing?

Exquisite power, but no control. Ashura turned the waterskin over and over in her hands.

Seemed like it was about time to take some control. To make plans, instead of just drifting and reacting, one crisis to the next. She was this ship’s captain, right? She pulled the stopper, and gave the noxious potion a careful sniff.

Edwin spoke up. "Before you drink that, and begin to writhe about while frothing at the mouth and hallucinating, we may wish to decide on a course."

Ashura snorted. _Speaking of control._ Mr. Constant Demands had his own ideas, as always (though he had settled down a little after the…incident in the Wood of Sharp Teeth.)

"I would, of course, suggest a south-easterly direction. We were heading to Athkatla before this irritating detour, correct?"

Ashura shot him a glare. "If it really is my choice, how about Waterdeep? Always wanted to see it. And I hear Athkatla gets too hot in the summer.”

"Yes. Yes. You are the leader. You've made that quite clear. I shall simply advise (the best advice being that we should seize the power that sleeps beneath Athkatla! But do as you wish, foolish girl…)"

_ As I wish?  _ She was kind of tempted to shove him overboard. (She thought once again of the incident in the Wood of Sharp Teeth.) Would his _stoneskin_ contingency instantly sink him? A fitting end for someone who always over-plans.

Of course, the chests full of Balduran's lost treasure – now stowed beneath the ship's floorboards– _had_ been toted along by Edwin's summoned creatures. He had his uses. Was even reliable, in his way.

And, thanks to those chests, it seemed that they were wealthy once again. Their makeshift hold was brimming with gold, gems, wands, and precious or enchanted knick-knacks. Not to mention Balduran's logbook and magically preserved journal, which were probably the most valuable treasure of all. Real historians (as opposed to fake ones like that asshole Mendas) would pay quite a lot for those. Baldur's Gate would be the obvious place to sell them, but perhaps they could get a bidding war going in another major city. Waterdeep…or Athkatla.

Looking again at the waterskin between her hands, Ashura made a decision. "Tell your mephit and the twins to point us southeast," she ordered. "We seem to have come across some treasure. What better place to spend it than The City of Coin?"

_ There. Course set.  _ Provided they didn't get hit by another rogue storm. Or lured onto the rocks by sirines. Or attacked by a kraken. Or boarded by Githyanki pirates.

_ Eh.  _ What was the worst that could happen?

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that. A gigantic writing project finally COMPLETE! What a relief, and thank you for reading!
> 
> I’m not sure if I’ll ever write a sequel to this, but if I do, I’m curious what readers think: Ashura the Rampaging Werewolf going into Shadows of Amn, or Ashura the Leader who may have learned a lesson or two and resolved to be less reckless? I have some ideas and preferences for a sequel, but I’m still a little split (and a werewolf protagonist might be an interesting, if drastic change.)
> 
> In any case: a HUGE thank you to everyone who has faved, followed, and/or reviewed this fic. And even though it's finished —dear readers— I would always welcome more feedback of any sort (Please? - Please? - Please?) It's always appreciated.


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